The Goblet's Revenge
by Shadow Dragon
Summary: Albus Potter's first year turns deadly when the Goblet of Fire unexpectedly names him the youngest champion ever. Now on top of surviving classwork and Weasley "help," he faces deadly mazes, vicious beasts, and his biggest challenge ever--the Yule Ball.
1. The Goblet of Fire

**A/N: So here it is, my new idea. The Goblet's Revenge. This one is already half-written, so people won't have to wait six months between chapter fingers crossed. I hope you enjoy my version of Albus Potter, Rose Weasley, and especially James Potter. I follow some things from whatever JKR has said after the books, but other than that, I'm on my own and enjoying the fact that this is fanfic. Not canon. Speaking of which...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. I'm not making money. I don't want JKR coming after me with her vicious rhetoric. Please don't sue me. I'm a penniless video editor living in a resort community. I can't afford it.**

**Chapter One: The Goblet of Fire**

"D'you see anything?"

Though Albus Potter wasn't the shortest member of the first years—Radcliffe Flitwick, great-nephew of the Charms professor, held that dubious honor—he had to stand on his toes and crane his neck to see past a group of Hufflepuff third years. "Nothing," he told his friends, disgusted. "Don't think anything's happening yet."

Rose Weasley checked her watch and adjusted her scarf. Late September breezes were cool enough to merit warmer cloaks, warning of a cold (and long) winter ahead. "They're going to be late before too much longer."

Beside her, Evan Newcastle shifted from foot to foot. Albus figured he was impatient for the new arrivals only because they were the only things between Evan and a great feast. It had been this way since the Start of the Year feast; while the other first years worried and fretted over whatever lies their older and wiser siblings had told them about the Sorting, Muggle-born Evan Newcastle had daydreamed about all the food magic could produce. He hadn't even been disgruntled at the sight of Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington's popping up through the treacle tart. In fact, his reasoning had been that perhaps ghosts flavored the food differently.

He'd been disappointed.

Now, he turned to Albus. "You think they're going to put French and Bulgarian food on the tables? I'd like to try that."

"Why?" Rose asked him. "You hardly taste anything since you eat so fast."

Evan shrugged. "Might look better."

"For the three seconds before you inhale it, sure."

Albus ignored his friends—and the other Gryffindor first years beside them, who were all wondering about how the Dumstrang and Beauxbatons students were going to arrive. Instead, he stretched his neck as far as it would go, and shouted. "Something's happening!"

Indeed, Hogwarts students all around them began to move, agitated and excited. The first years all surged forward, though it didn't help them see any better. Only Albus and Winnie Cates, who was taller than the rest of the Gryffindor first years, even Albus, could see anything.

He saw, through a crush of black student robes, something break the surface of the lake. And gaped as that _something _became a huge ship's mast, boldly red. Surging beneath it came the rest of the ship, a huge vessel of rich wood that gleamed golden in the twilight. Albus could barely make out dots on the ship's deck. Dots that, as the ship came closer, took form as what must be the Durmstrang students—they certainly didn't look French like Albus's aunt.

"It's Durmstrang!" he hissed at his classmates when they poked him. "They've come—on a giant ship, up through the lake!"

"What? How?" Evan, the only Muggle-born among them, tried to push forward and get a better look. "Like a submarine?"

"No, like a…" Albus tried to search his memory, to remember if Aunt Hermione had ever given these ships a specific name.

Rose, however, had managed to nudge a couple of third years aside and get a better look. "It's a pirate's ship!" she told them. "A real one!" She looked very much like she longed to explore it. Albus figured it was only a matter of time until she had dredged up at least three books on ships in the library. And she would probably expect him to read one.

All around them, standing on the lawn, students were chattering about the Durmstrang students, who were now much easier to see. Albus noticed that it was mostly girls speculating—girls above third year.

Before he could comment, one of the third years near him pointed out the sky. "Look at that!"

Immediately, the student body twisted around to look. This time, Albus wasn't the only one of his year privy to the arrival; every student at Hogwarts watched, several mouths agape, as a gigantic, horse-drawn carriage flew at them from the sun. It started as a speck of black in the sky, but as it drew nearer to the school, Albus saw that the horses were easily three times the size of Professor Firenze. Which probably a good thing because it looked like the carriage was big enough to swallow his grandparents' house whole. It landed near Hagrid's cottage with a ground-shaking thump.

"That'd be Beauxbatons," said a new voice, and Albus turned to see that his cousin Victoire had joined the crowd. "Mum told me about that carriage once. It's so big that there's actually a full garden inside, and bidets."

"What's a bidet?" Evan asked.

Rose opened her mouth, probably to give a long spiel, but Albus cut her off by telling him, "Fancy toilet."

"Oh. Okay."

Victoire glanced over the first years, who were all clustered together. "All right, you lot, time to get inside and go to the feast." She made a shooing noise, herding the first years out of the crowd and toward the front doors.

Albus, Rose, and Evan fell in step beside her. "How come you're doing Prefect duties?" Albus asked.

"Because the fifth year Prefect is currently missing." Victoire rolled her eyes; as that same Prefect's older sister, she knew exactly where the missing person was. And she had no desire to go there. "Which means I'm filling in. How's it going? I haven't seen you in awhile."

Albus had been inordinately excited, in the beginning, to finally be attending school with all of his cousins. Maybe James Potter didn't look up to Victoire, but Albus secretly thought she was pretty neat—for a girl. And maybe she would pay more attention to him, now that he was old enough to be considered a Hogwarts student, and a Gryffindor. Maybe she would help him out with Quidditch, even. It hadn't taken him long to see that this hope was futile. Victoire Weasley had to be the busiest Gryffindor on the face of the planet, Albus figured. Between her Head Girl duties and playing Quidditch, Albus only saw his cousin at meal times, and sometimes not even then.

"It's okay," he answered truthfully.

"How's homework going?"

Albus shrugged. Between Rose and Evan, who was quite brilliant when he wanted to be, he never had to worry that he'd have a wrong answer, as long as he debated his homework with his friends. James, who lived for scaring his siblings, had made Hogwarts sound much harder than it seemed. "That's okay, too."

"I got a letter from Gran today," Victoire said conversationally. "You won't believe what color Uncle George managed to turn the Burrow last week."

"Puce?"

"Chartreuse?"

"Lavender?"

Victoire laughed. "Green."

Albus wrinkled his nose. For Uncle George, that sounded tame.

"No," Victoire went on. "I mean _everything _was green. Including Errol the Second, Granda—who found it funny—and Gran—who did _not_."

Albus spent a very entertaining moment imagining his diminutive grandmother bright green—and hopping mad. It made him grin as he entered the Great Hall with his friends and classmates. He was still grinning after Victoire had shooed them away so that she could sit with her own friends, the number of which seemed to be great indeed.

Evan sat, a bit put out that there was yet to be food in the serving dishes. "So, this is the Tri-Wizard Tournament kick-off."

"Looks like."

"Wish there was food."

Rose absently patted him on the shoulder.

For the past fifteen years, the wizard world had lived at the beck and call of the Goblet of Fire. Albus knew this only because he distantly remembered his father talking about it to his mother after dinner one night. He'd been so fascinated by the idea of a goblet full of fire that he'd tried to make one himself—and had been grounded to his room without his toy broomstick for over a week. Now that he was old enough to know better, he'd written his father at the beginning of the year, and had received a surprisingly in-depth answer.

Fifteen years before, the Goblet of Fire, retired since Harry Potter's own days at Hogwarts, had sprang to life. Unable to do anything else, the schools had carefully gone through with the Tri-Wizard Tournament, this time at Beauxbatons. With no casualties this time, everybody had been happy. And they'd been just as happy to let the goblet keep resting. Nobody was particularly pleased when the goblet had woken again just after Albus's fourth birthday, but the Tournament had taken place at Durmstrang.

Even while the Hogwarts Express had been en route to Hogsmeade, the goblet had fired up for a third time.

It was Hogwarts' turn.

Now, Albus turned as the doors to the Great Hall opened wide. Like the rest of the school, he rose to his feet.

First came the wizards and witches of Durmstrang, in their furred hats and swirling robes. They looked, to Albus's young eyes, a bit fierce as they stomped into the Great Hall, their faces impassible.

Beside him, he heard Rose gasp. "That's Viktor Krum!"

Albus twisted. Sure enough, following the Durmstrang students came the very imposing, impossible-to-out fly Viktor Krum himself. He'd retired from Quidditch before Albus's fifth birthday, but Albus still heard his uncles—save Uncle Ron—waxing on about the greatest Seeker of all time. Save Harry Potter, of course.

"Reckon you should let your dad know he's here?" he asked Rose without taking his eyes off of the great Quidditch player. "Bet he'll turn red."

Rose grinned in a way that reminded Albus of their Uncle George.

"Who's Viktor Krum?" Evan asked—just as the doors opened a second time to admit the Beauxbatons students. They were, as Albus had suspected from the stories his dad had told, mostly female. He heard several of the older Gryffindor girls whispering about their robes, but to Albus, they looked like plain old robes. Unlike the Durmstrang students, who strutted in their group, these French students seemed to be gathered around a set of twins. A gloriously blonde girl and her equally-handsome brother strode down the aisle between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables, their chins so high that Albus wondered if they were trying to balance something on them.

"That's Giselle and Germain Delstanche," one fifth year whispered to her friends. "The international models—I hear Gladrags've been trying to get them to model, but Germain said no. Look at them, they're both so gorgeous."

Albus thought they looked a bit pinched-faced, but he knew better than to say anything. He understood without anybody telling him that one of these two was the Beauxbatons hopeful for champion. Just like there were three tall Durmstrang students that seemed to stand out. Albus eyed them, wondering if Victoire, who'd already professed her interest in being Hogwarts champion, could take them on. She might be a girl, he reminded himself, but he'd seen her and Uncle Harry dueling at the last big family picnic. And Victoire had held her own—for a little while, at least.

"Food!" Evan cried suddenly, yanking Albus from his reverie. Even as the redhead turned, his best friend was almost buried in a dish of some kind of stew Albus didn't recognize. It certainly smelled delicious, though.

There were, after all, some perks to international relations.

After the food had been eaten, and several speeches made, introducing the judges, and a couple of Aurors Albus distantly knew from visiting his father at work, the food was finally cleared away and dessert laid out. Headmaster Quinlan made a speech welcoming everybody and waved for Mr. Filch—did the man never retire?—to bring out an old chest.

"What's that?" Evan whispered to his friends.

"The goblet, I expect."

Rose leaned forward in her seat to get a better look. "I'd have thought it would be bigger."

Albus shrugged.

Filch worked the chest open, no small feat with his spindly arms, and pulled something from within its depths. Reverently, he passed it over to Headmaster Quinlan, who placed it on a small dais in front of the teachers' table.

"Any witch or wizard of age may enter their name in this goblet after this Feast. We shall draw names to choose one champion from each school on Friday, giving you a week to decide." Quinlan looked around the hall, seeming to meet everybody's eyes as he gave the warning. "Do not undertake this task lightly—or as a joke. The contract is binding. If you are selected, you will have to compete."

He paused, mostly for effect. "But consider this: anybody competing in the Tournament is exempt from end of the year exams."

There was a small cheer among the seventh years.

Quinlan gestured for Madame Olympe and Headmaster Krum to join him. "Shall we?"

When the three of them lit the goblet together, a small sun in the center of the Great Hall, Albus felt a shiver—and wondered why.

* * *

Over the next week, Albus watched students enter their names into the cup—and watched other students try and fail. Those under seventeen just couldn't seem to go near the goblet. They would walk purposely and find their feet leading them somewhere they didn't want to go, like straight into a table or a wall.

Other students learned quickly from their example.

Albus watched the Durmstrang students enter their names over dinner the night after the welcoming feast. One by one, the wizards and witches strode toward the goblet and firmly dropped their slivers of parchment into the goblet, jumping back to avoid the little licks of flame. It was almost anticlimactic, but Albus enjoyed. The last wizard to go was the tallest, a black-haired wizard named Mikhail Korvachev. When he went back to his group at the Slytherin table, the entire lot cheered.

Albus secretly bet he was going to win Durmstrang champion.

The French students didn't cheer each other on. Instead, each time a student put his or her name in the goblet, they were glared at until they returned to the Ravenclaw table. The only ones who received cheers were Giselle and Germain.

Life didn't change much for the first years with the Durmstrang students and Beauxbatons students running around. Any students from the other schools were all in classes with the seventh years, so none of Albus' classes differed from before. He still did fairly well in Potions with Professor Hopewell teaching, and he still couldn't transfigure a thing nearly as well as Evan or Rose. Chatter ran to speculation and side-bets over which students would be champion, but that was about it.

Still, he was as excited as the rest when he traveled with the first years down to the feast where the champions would be picked. He'd hollered and whooped with the rest of the Gryffindor table when Victoire Weasley and her roommate Allison Baybeck put their names in. For posterity's sake, he'd booed the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw entries, and had sneered at the Slytherins. It had been great fun.

"You know," Evan philosophized while they took their seats, "I think Hogwarts is my version of heaven. Maybe I've died and don't know it."

"Endless classes and coursework is your idea of heaven?" Albus asked. He spotted his brother James come in with a group of the second years and waved. James didn't wave back.

"'Course not." Evan stuffed a huge forkful in and talked around it. "All this food? All the time? Just…just sitting there. Heaven."

At his side, Rose laughed. "Of course food would be your idea of heaven. Speaking of which, Al, can you pass the asparagus?"

"Don't know why you like this stuff," Albus told her as he handed over the dish. "Tastes foul."

"Says the boy who willingly eats beets."

Evan rolled his eyes as the cousins started bickering, but, as he was stuffing his face, seemed to content to ignore them. His head jerked up as the goblet, at the front of the room, spit out a long tongue of flame. "Hey—something's happening!"

Immediately, silence fell over the Great Hall. Albus could practically hear all the seventeen-year-olds holding their breath.

Headmaster Quinlan stood up, chuckling. "Guess the goblet's impatient to begin, eh?" Creakily, he made his way down to the dais where the goblet sat. He rubbed his hands together. "Let's see who our lucky victims—I'm sorry, I mean champions—"

A few nervous laughs tittered through the hall.

"—Are. Dear me!"

The goblet spit another spurt of flame, nearly singeing the headmaster's eyebrows off, but he moved back with more finesse than usual. One hand reached up and snatched the slip of paper from the air. "All champions will report immediately to the room right off the Great Hall. And, representing Durmstrang—"

Albus leaned forward.

"Mikhail Korvachev!"

"Should've put money on that," Evan muttered as the Slytherin table went crazy.

The goblet launched another slip of paper. "From Beauxbatons—Giselle Delstanche!"

"Wow, this is a bit predictable," Rose observed as Giselle rose to her classmates' cheers, shot a superior smirk at her brother, and sauntered toward the door Mikhail had used. "Bet you ten Sickles it picks golden girl Victoire for Hogwarts."

"No bet."

"Drat. I could use ten Sickles."

When the goblet launched its third and final slip, Albus and the Gryffindor table held their breaths.

They needn't have bothered.

"And from Hogwarts—Victoire Weasley!"

Dishes flew everywhere as the Gryffindor table leapt to its feat, shouting and cheering. Victoire was nearly swallowed by congratulations; she laughed as she broke free and waved to the school on her way to follow Giselle and Mikhail. Taunts flew from the Gryffindors to the Slytherins, to the Hufflepuffs. Everybody at the tables alternately sneered or cheered.

Therefore, only a few saw the goblet burp out fourth and fifth papers in quick succession. But everybody somehow heard the intake of breath from McGonagall, who'd snatched the papers from the air. And the hall went absolutely silent.

McGonagall stared down at the scraps of parchment in her fingers. A line appeared between her eyebrows, a line that Albus had already learned did not bode well for anything Gryffindor. McGonagall was, in a word, displeased.

Finally, she cleared her throat. "James Potter."

Immediately, every whisper in the hall died. Not a sound could be heard; Albus was sure he'd stopped breathing, was positive the air had just collected in his lungs and burned with jealousy there. No fair. James was going to be champion?!

"And."

The hall seemed to draw its breath as one.

"Albus Potter."

Stunned, Albus lifted his eyes for the first time, looked down the table toward the second years, toward a set of eyes that matched his own.

"Mum," James breathed, staring back, "is going to _murder _us."


	2. Wrath of the Potters

**A/N: Here's where I think the story gets interesting. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Albus. Don't own Rose. Don't own anything past these words. And not using them to make any money! Yay! **

**Chapter Two: Wrath of the Potters  
**

The walk to the front of the Great Hall, no small distance, seemed to take _ages_ as Albus put one foot in front of the other, trudging like a man ordered to the firing wall. Every eye in the hall seemed to bore individually into the soft spot between his shoulder blades, and individual weight that grew heavier with every step. He could hear James behind him—James had never learned to walk quietly—and the snickers, whispers, giggles that followed in his brother's wake.

Unlike him, James probably thought this was a great laugh.

After an eternity of footfalls and staring, Albus reached the end of the Gryffindor table and let out a small sigh before he squared his shoulders again. Now to face the teachers.

Without looking a single one of them in the eye—not even pretty Professor Hopewell, who'd always been nice to him—Albus marched past them and out through the door. The instant he escaped from the thousands of watching eyes, his shoulders slumped and his pace slowed. He gasped, the panic he hadn't let his classmates see now grasping at his throat.

"Oi!" James trotted through the door right behind him. Always the supportive big brother, he thwacked Albus across the shoulder blades with the flat of his hand. Albus swiped back, furious and panting, but James just dodged out of the way. His eyes shone. "None of that, now. Mum's not around to do the Asthma Charm, and we can't go to the hospital wing yet. We're going to be champions."

"Why is this happening to us?" Albus demanded, stopping in the middle of the hallway. For once, he wasn't a combatant, merely a lost and confused little brother.

"Dunno. Somebody must have put our names in the Goblet as a prank—Dad's going to be steamed when he finds out, it'll be like that time you accidentally turned Lily into a—"

"Yes, I know," Albus muttered testily, as he didn't much care to remember that particular occasion, and he especially did not want to remind himself of the punishment that had followed. He hadn't been able to sit properly for a week.

James sniggered, and the brothers set off down the corridor to where the room with the other champions—the real ones, Albus thought—awaited them. Perhaps James sensed that Albus was very close to another panic attack, for he grinned. "Seriously, Al, this'll be cool. Just think about the adventures we can write home to Hugo about—he'll be so jealous—"

"I'm too young to be a champion," Albus said faintly. "I can barely levitate a feather."

James snorted. "And who says you'll be champion, anyway? I'm bigger'n you. It'll probably be me."

Albus thought about this for a minute. "Victoire's bigger than either of us."

"Yeah, but she's a girl. Everybody knows they're useless at this sort of thing."

"Don't let her hear you say that. She'll hex you into next week, and it'll probably be something awful, like pink robes or—" Before Albus's imagination could run too far away with him, he looked up and realized that they'd arrived at the room. His stomach tipped and landed between his ankles.

"Well, c'mon then—" James, who had never held a single doubt in his head that he would be a Gryffindor, solved Albus's hesitation by grabbing his younger brother by the front of the robes and yanking. Albus instinctively yelped and tried to fight him off. His boot caught the hem of his robe—he fell forward into James, shoving both boys through the door. They landed with identical grunts.

"James? Al?"

Albus hurriedly disentangled himself from James before his brother could retaliate, and sprang to his feet. The other three champions were already in the room—he got an impression of a lot of space, dark and smoky walls, and glimpses of cool devices he'd like to poke at when he had more time. Right now he had to focus on his cousin, and the two seemingly huge seventeen-year-olds on either side of her. She'd risen to her feet when the door had opened, but the French girl stayed seated, and the Bulgarian boy remained scowling by the fire.

Beside Albus, James scrambled to his feet. "Hi," he said for both of them.

Victoire glanced at the other champions and back at her cousins, confused. "Did you come to fetch us back to the Great Hall? Has Professor McGonagall made another announcement?"

"No to the first, and yes to the second," James informed her, grinning jauntily. "We're it."

"You're what?" The Bulgarian boy—Mikhail—scowled at both of them. Albus wondered if his face had any other expression.

"We're the other champions."

All three of the older students stared at Albus and James for so long that Albus began to shuffle his feet and look for the exit. It was the French girl that broke the silence, with a word that Albus knew from experience was a very bad word (he'd heard Aunt Fleur utter it, and when he'd repeated it in front of his mum, he'd had his mouth washed out with the nastiest soap she could find). Though he had no idea what it meant.

Victoire, on the other hand, just looked annoyed. "James, this isn't time for one of your jokes—"

"It's not a joke," James interrupted hotly. "It's—"

"The goblet spit our names out," Albus informed her quietly, wondering if the others could see him shaking. "I didn't do anything to it, I swear. I don't even want this—I can't fight dragons, or go through a maze or face merpeople, or any of that stuff Dad did! I can't even Transfigure a needle right like Rose can! Everybody's going to laugh at me—" To his absolute horror, his lower lip trembled and his shoulders began to shake.

Victoire was across the room in an instant. Albus burrowed against her gratefully, squeezing his eyes shut against hot tears.

"James," she said sternly, keeping Albus close to her side, "did you get somebody to put your names in the goblet?"

"What?" James gave her a wide-eyed look. "No way! Mum would kill me, you know that. And I wouldn't put Albus's name in there anyway. He's just a baby."

Albus lifted his head to glare at his brother. "Am not!"

James sneered back. "Like Lily. A big baby and a _girl_—"

"Please." Victoire rolled her eyes and made sure to stay between the two brothers before Albus could fly at James. "For five minutes, don't be yourselves. We have to figure this out. Now—"

Whatever she was going to say, Albus never knew, for the French girl—Giselle—rattled off something to Victoire that he didn't understand. She sighed as she replied back in French.

Mikhail simply scowled harder.

All five students turned as one, expecting to see the three school Headmasters and Headmistresses, as the door opened. But it was only Professor Neville Longbottom, looking a bit harried and running his hands through his hair. He glanced at each of the champions before focusing on the Potter brothers. "James, Albus, a word? Outside?"

Without waiting for an answer, he left.

On the other side of Victoire, James gulped. Albus glanced up at his cousin worriedly; Victoire just gave him a reassuring nod and nudged him toward the door.

Professor Longbottom was already pacing in rapid, jerky strides as James and Albus, both pale, edged out into the hallway. He turned to face both of them and knelt so that they were all on the same level. "You're good boys, both of you," he said without preamble as James and Albus stared at him. He glanced at James. "Well, most of the time.

"That's why I'm giving you this one chance to confess without the risk of expulsion. I've talked to the other professors—they're in a right state, let me tell you—and they've agreed to give you this chance, as long as you confess now."

"But we didn't do anything!" James protested. "The goblet just spit out names out!"

Professor Longbottom gave him a narrow look. "Are you lying to me, James Sirius Potter?"

"He's not." Albus may not have liked James all the time, but he couldn't help but think it unfair that a professor knew his brother's middle name. That was like playing dirty. So he stuck his chin up. "Neither of us went anywhere near the goblet. Honest, Neville."

"And we didn't ask any of the older students to do it for us, either," James muttered hotly.

There was a long pause as Professor Longbottom looked from one skinny boy to the other. Finally, he sighed. "The devil of it is, I believe you. The other professors probably won't, given your reputation, James. But neither of you is advanced enough to hoodwink the goblet, and I doubt anybody at Hogwarts could, either. And it's Professor Longbottom while you're in school, Albus."

"Oh. Right. Sorry."

Professor Longbottom waved that away.

"If nobody in school is powerful enough to trick the goblet, Professor," Albus said, "how did it get our names?"

With a sigh, Professor Longbottom ran a hand through his hair, which flopped rather comically. Albus vaguely remembered his grandmother entreating the Herbology professor to get a haircut, very much like she always did to Uncle Bill.

Maybe they both kept their hair long just to spite her.

"The professors are working on it," Professor Longbottom informed the boys. He sighed again. "I swear, if the pair of you weren't the spitting image of your father, this would cap it for me that you two really are the sons of Harry Potter. This sort of thing was always happening to him at Hogwarts—I'd hoped the two of you might avoid it."

"Dad did all right in the tournament, didn't he?" James asked. "And he was younger than the other champions, too?"

"He was at least two years older than you are now," Professor Longbottom informed him. "And three years older than Albus. I can't sugar-coat this for you boys, though I wish I could. I wish that the goblet choosing you wasn't a magically binding contract so that you two could bow out. As it is, we're expecting your parents here any second now—the owl's been sent, so they should be on their way."

James and Albus, for once in accord, exchanged a terrified look. Their parents coming to Hogwarts could never be a good thing.

"Your father was fourteen when he competed in the Tri-Wizard Tournament," Professor Longbottom went on, missing the look that passed between the brothers. "He didn't want to—he'd have been happier in the stands with the rest of the school. I won't lie to you boys. The challenges were some of the toughest he ever faced."

Albus imagined his father, tall, broad, and brave—and suddenly felt very, very small. How on earth was he supposed to do anything Harry Potter had ever done? For one thing, he was skinny, and short, and he wasn't brave like his dad. He'd only made it into Gryffindor because he'd asked the hat to put him there.

"But we're going to figure this out." Professor Longbottom, unaware of the petrified thoughts racing through Albus's brain, laid a hand on his shoulder, and one on James's shoulder. "We're going to do all we can to protect both of you, I can promise you that. And we'll get to the bottom of this."

Suddenly, Albus felt very much like running into Victoire's arms again.

"Now go on inside and wait with the other champions. The other professors and I will be in shortly to explain the rules and go over some details. We'll let you know when your parents get here, all right?" He gave both of them a bolstering smile and patted their shoulders, shooing them back into the room.

Inside, the scene was much different than the one they'd left behind. Victoire stood near the door, red in the face from anger. Mikhail, similarly, looked furious, while Giselle just appeared to be bored—viciously so.

"I have done the math!" Mikhail was shouting in a thick accent Albus could barely understand. "There are supposed to be three champions—and instead, Hogwarts has three to itself!"

Though the back of Victoire's neck was red, she eyed Mikhail coolly. "Glad to see the Durmstrang champion can count," she snapped. "And yes, Hogwarts has three champions, but it's not like it's something we've done on purpose. They're just little boys—they didn't have a choice. Their names were called—"

"Hey," James snapped, rushing forward. "I'm _not _a little boy!"

Albus was quick to clear his throat and add, "Neither am I!"

But Victoire rolled her eyes at her cousins. "Not right now, guys. Have a seat and be quiet for a minute."

James was having none of it. "We _didn't _cheat," he informed Mikhail hotly. "For all I know, _you _could have cheated. Putting in a couple of first and second years in the goblet so that you can better your chances!"

The French girl snorted to hide something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

"James," Victoire said in a voice that told Albus she was quickly losing patience with the both of them, "sit down and shut it. Mikhail, obviously something bigger than all of us is going on here if it's putting random students in the goblet and entering them in the tournament. So cut them some slack, will you? It's not their fault."

"Besides," said Giselle, the first English words that Albus had heard from her, "Victoire is right. They are just little boys. Are you so worried about your skills, Monsieur Korvachev, that you are afraid of facing two little boys?"

"We're _not _little boys," James said through gritted teeth.

Mikhail turned an interesting shade of umber and scowled at the ground in a way that seemed very familiar to Albus. With a start, the first year remembered Teddy Lupin getting that look every time Victoire bested him at anything over summer holidays. He looked curiously at Giselle, remembering exactly what that look had led to between Victoire and Teddy. He guessed she was pretty, but he personally thought Victoire, with her strawberry-blonde hair and her Quidditch skills, was much prettier.

It was just as well that Mikhail liked Giselle, though, as Victoire had been writing really long letters to Teddy every night in the Common Room.

He left James to defend their honor and wandered past the other champions to poke at the objects in the room surrounding the room's only desk. Bright silver contraptions, a bit dusty, with moving parts that whirled and clacked. A mirror with odd, ambiguous shadows sliding across its surface. Albus peered hard at it, but none of the shapes actualized into anything he could understand, and it did not throw his reflection back at him. Even better, it didn't sigh and tell him to fix his hair.

He was just reaching to touch the silver goo inside of a small stone tub no bigger than his hand when the door opened, bringing in the professors. Guiltily, Albus drew his hand back and moved to stand beside James.

"Congratulations," said the French Headmistress (Albus had forgotten her name), towering over even Hagrid, who shuffled sideways into the room, "on being made champions, you _five_." She cast a mistrustful glance at the Potter boys. Albus merely craned his neck to stare back curiously.

Giselle stood for the first time and rattled off something that sounded like a question.

"Yes," Victoire echoed her immediately, moving to where she could put a hand on either of her cousin's shoulder. "Why were there five chosen and not three?"

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, displeasure written in every line of her face. "Professors Quinlan and Flitwick are attempting to find that out now. Until we can fix this discrepancy, the Messrs. Potter will have to compete with the three of you."

Albus's last hope of this being a terrible mistake bottomed out, as did his stomach.

"But they're not old enough," Victoire protested.

Professor McGonagall's lips thinned. "I don't like this any more than you do, Miss Weasley, but the rules are clear. If the wizard or witch's name is submitted by the Goblet of Fire, it's a magically binding contract. They have no choice but to compete."

"But they're so young."

"A wizard can enter a contract at eleven, officially."

Victoire nodded unhappily, and tightened her grip on Albus shoulder. He'd begun to shake.

"Are we going to be in trouble?" James asked, speaking for the first time since the professors had entered. Though he was by no means unfamiliar with the concept, he looked extremely uncomfortable with the idea now.

"Professor Longbottom has vouched for you. Unless we find that yes, there was a way either of you boys had tricked the goblet, neither of you will be in trouble," Professor McGonagall informed him, her lips thin. James's shoulders slumped with relief.

Headmaster Krum stepped forward for the first time, and swept a gaze down his hooked nose at all five of the champions. "The next year of your lives," he informed them in an accent almost as thick as Mikhail's, "will be very hard, but the goblet does not choose unworthy candidates." His eyes fell on the Potters. "Even those chosen by mistake.

"You will face three tasks, each harder than the last, in front of the entire school."

Albus blanched.

"They will require courage, wit, magical skill, and knowledge."

"You've all been excused from end of the year terms, as you will be busy preparing for the third task," McGonagall informed all of the students, and James's shaky grin appeared. "But that does not mean any of you will be allowed to neglect your schoolwork. In fact, should I find out that any of you have been doing so, the consequences will be _quite _severe. Am I understood?"  
Even the insouciant Giselle gave a hurried nod.

The door opened yet another time, and Professor Longbottom stuck his head in. "The Potters are here," he announced. Albus went white; James turned a sickly shade of green. But they moved to the door when McGonagall gestured.

And Albus didn't argue when James, stricken, whispered, "We are _so _dead."

* * *

By the time Albus and James made it back to the Gryffindor Commons, neither had died, but both had wished, several times, that they had. It hadn't been a pleasant scene in Headmaster Quinlan's office. Their mother walked them back to the tower, exclaiming over everything that had changed, and everything that hadn't. She stopped right outside the entrance to Gryffindor tower and knelt to face her boys. "Your father's not angry," she told them. "Not with you. You've done nothing wrong."

"Finally somebody believes me," James muttered.

Ginny smiled and tucked a lock of black behind his ear. "You would have, if you could."

"Oh yeah. In a heartbeat."

"Your uncles tried to trick the goblet when they were at Hogwarts, you know."

"Yeah?" James perked up, instantly interested. His uncles—save Uncle Percy, who was rather a bit stuffy (though their mother told them constantly that he'd improved by leaps and bounds)—were his idols. "Which ones?"

"Fred and George." His mother smiled a bit sadly. "They got great long white beards for their trouble."

James looked delighted. "I want to see that."

"I'm sure George has a picture somewhere."

"Cool! I'll ask him at Christmas."

"He'll be happy to tell you all about it. Albus, what's wrong?"

Albus didn't look up from where he was staring at his hands. "If Dad's not mad at us, why is he mad?"

Ginny sighed and ran a hand over his hair. She didn't try to sort it out; everybody knew from years of experience that though Albus had inherited the Weasley red, his hair wouldn't lie flat. Even Sleakeazy's wouldn't work. His grandmother was the only person who ever despaired of it.

"Your father's told you about the time he was a champion, hasn't he?" she asked both boys, who nodded. "It was… a tough year for him, not that he ever had an easy time at Hogwarts. He'll tell you the worst part was finding a date for the Yule Ball…"

"Yule Ball?" both James and Albus interrupted.

"You'll find out all about it, I'm sure." Her smile told Albus that she might enjoy the Yule Ball more than either of them, but she didn't explain. Instead, she sighed. "The reason your father is worried is that he wanted you two to have a normal Hogwarts experience. The Tri-Wizard Tournament isn't a walk in the park, you know. There's a reason they restricted it to older wizards and witches."

"Why us?" Albus asked. "What've we ever done to deserve this?"

"Sometimes bad things happen," Ginny told him. "It's not about deserving. It's just the way life is. And don't worry about your father. I'll sort him out. Whatever happens, we're both proud of you, and we're not mad. Just worried."

Even though knowing his parents weren't angry with him lightened things up somewhat, knowing that they were worried somehow made it worse. Albus's stomach jumped to his throat, making it hard to speak. So he just nodded, and felt, rather than saw, James nod from beside him.

Ginny looked from one of her sons to the other, raising her eyebrows a bit at their matching expressions. There was no doubting they were her sons—though they'd both inherited precious little from the Weasley side of things—as much as they were Harry's. James's freckles, Albus's hair, their eyes. Of the three, only Lily had the original Lily Potter's eyes. It made her smile a bit as she ruffled first James's hair, then Albus's.

"I've left Lily with your grandmother, so I'd best find your father and get along home. He'll likely spend the entire night catching up with Neville if I don't nudge him out of here." Ginny straightened "I want both of you to be on your best behavior this year—no more owls about detentions, James—and mind Victoire and your other cousins."

"Aw, Mum—"

"I mean it, James. She's Head Girl and given that you each have half of your father's genes swimming through you, I've asked her to keep an eye on the pair of you. Not that it'll keep you out of trouble, mind." Ginny added the last bit absently, and shook her head. "Even if you didn't look like miniature versions of your father, there would be no doubt that you're Harry's sons after tonight. And here I'd hoped you might follow the Weasley side of things."

Albus eyed her. "Nev—I mean Professor Longbottom—said the same thing."

Ginny just laughed. "I suppose he would. I'm off, so give me a hug."

"Aw," James muttered, eyeing the portrait hole as though it could open any second and spill half of Gryffindor into the hallway. "Do we have to?"

"Do you want Christmas presents this year?"

Grumbling, James went into Ginny's arms, though he withdrew himself rather quickly. Ginny just laughed and dropped a kiss on the top of his head before he could dodge. He backed up, scowling and rubbing at the crown on his hair as Albus clung tightly to his mother. She gave him a squeeze for good measure and gently nudged him back.

"You boys be good. We'll see you at Christmas—remember to write once in awhile. I'll wait until you're inside."

And she did, watching as Albus scrambled up into the portrait hole behind his brother.

Once inside Gryffindor Tower, Albus forgot all about his parents being in the castle. The Gryffindors had come back to the tower en masse and were intent on celebrating that not one—but three—among their midst had been selected as Hogwarts Champions. They let out a roar of approval upon seeing the Potters, and both boys were quickly swept into the center of the party. Somebody shoved a bottle of butterbeer into Albus's hand and several people he didn't know patted him on the back, congratulating him. Nearby, James basked in similar treatment.

"So how'd you do it?" students asked him.

"Dunno," James answered them, grinning broadly. Albus began to fight his way out of the crowd, wanting nothing more than to find Rose and Evan. Or maybe his bed. He found the former first—Evan was, predictably, studying the contents of the food table with great interest, as though he wouldn't just wolf half of it down when he finally did make his selection. And Rose hovered nearby, bouncing on her toes trying to see her cousin.

"How much trouble are you in?" she demanded immediately when Albus finally made it to his friends.

"None."

"None at all?"

"The teachers seem to believe us when we say we didn't do it." Albus shrugged his thin shoulders. "They owled Mum and Dad. That's why it took so long for James and me to get back. We were up in McGonagall's office."

"Really? What'd they say?"

When Evan joined them, already stuffing a second cauldron cake into his mouth, Albus recounted everything that had happened from the time his name had been called.

"So you really have to compete?" Evan asked when Albus had finished. He glanced down at his hand and absently held it out. "Cauldron cake?"

"No thanks, you keep it," Albus said as Rose muttered, "Do you ever think about anything but food?"

Evan pretended to think about it. "Not really," he confessed.

"I really have to compete," Albus said glumly. Spotting an empty chair by the fire, he collapsed into it. "James is excited about it, but…"

"But?" Rose prompted, sitting on the arm of the chair. Evan took the other arm, still happily munching away on cauldron cakes.

"Dad faced a _dragon _when he did it." Albus had seen a dragon personally—he'd visited Uncle Charlie in Romania before, and Uncle Charlie had shown him Norberta, who was, in Albus's eyes, simply huge. "I can't face a dragon. I'm only eleven."

"Relax," Rose told him.

"Yeah," Evan added around a mouthful of cake, "I'm sure they won't have dragons. They like to switch it up, y'know. You'll probably face some dangerous magical beast like…" He trailed off, frowning. "Are, uh, minotaurs real?"

"Yes," Rose informed him. "But they live mostly in Greece, and they're not much on human flesh anymore, or so my mum tells me. She's met one—he much preferred goats and penguins."

"Penguins?" both Albus and Evan asked.

"Something about never having to worry whether or not he wanted fish or poultry for dinner—it doesn't really matter." Rose waved a hand and got back to the matter at hand. "I think you can do it, Albus. Remember that time you turned Hugo's hair green?"

"That was an accident, I swear—"

"But you still did it when James was only ever able to _bounce _a bit when he fell off his toy broom. You've got the magical skill to do this. You just need the magical knowledge. Isn't that right, Evan?"

"Sure." Albus's other friend swallowed. "And we can help you with that. I mean, the human sponge over here can look up any spell under the sun, even the ones that don't exist yet. And hey, I'm as good a dueling partner as you're gonna find." To prove it, Evan brandished his wand with a flourish—and promptly dropped it. He stared at the wand on the floor. "Or perhaps I can just help with the research."

"You guys really think I can do this?" Albus asked weakly.

"Definitely!" Rose was just warming up. She leaned forward, excited. "And I bet the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs might help, too. After all, we're first years, it's not like we can play Quidditch yet—" Something Rose obviously felt was a great sacrilege. "—So we might as well represent the school the best way we can. That's through you."

Though his friends' reassuring words had eased his nerves a bit, Albus suddenly felt very daunted again.

"I, er, I suppose," was all he said. "I'm knackered. I'm going to bed, I think. It's been… an interesting day."

"Good night, Al," Rose said sincerely.

Both Albus and Evan bid her a good night and headed up to their room, on the fifth level. Once there, Albus changed into pajamas and climbed into his four-poster bed, staring up at the canopy in the dark. In a single day, he'd gone from Albus Potter, second son of Harry Potter, to Albus Potter, champion of the first years.

He wasn't sure which would be easier to survive.


	3. Backlash

**A/N: So having my learned my lesson with "Garnet Snitch," I'm writing with a buffer. I have to have at least twenty pages in my buffer before I post a chapter. It currently stands that I've got twenty-five, which is a nice feeling. So the only thing you have to worry about me updating right now is me forgetting that exists. Which has actually happened before, but I'll try not to let it happen this time.**

**Now, JKR probably mentions Victoire having other siblings in her continued ramblings about the characters after the book. I'm choosing to ignore her on this aspect, as I don't consider that canon until it's in a printed book, in my hands. Hear that, JKR? You want me to use this stuff, publish it! (Or you can publish another book. I wouldn't mind that. You're quite a fabulous writer)**

**Disclaimer: It's not mine. I wish my disclaimers were more interesting. **

**Chapter Three: Backlash**

Out of all of the things that Albus expected to deal with the next day at breakfast, jealousy didn't even consider making its way onto his list. He expected disbelief—he was just used to that. After all, people had been disbelieving him for years when he claimed that his father was actually just a regular dad. He came home late from work some nights, he shouted when he was angry, he punished Albus when he did something wrong. Sometimes unfairly. But as far as dads went, Harry Potter was remarkably normal—something nobody ever believed.

Albus went to breakfast with Evan after their roommates had already gone down (Evan had lost his left sock for the third time that week). Along the way, ghosts seemed to pause and peer at him, but Albus was used to people doing that, so he ignored them and compared all the Transfiguration answers he could remember with Evan's. Though he tried not to think about it, every few seconds, the Tri-Wizard Tournament would creep into his mind and twist his stomach into a sick, oily ball. And every time, he pushed it forcefully away. He was only eleven. There was time to deal with that later.

Rose had saved both of them seats by the rest of the first years. Albus gratefully plunked his rucksack down and reached for the sausage, starving as always. Evan didn't even wait to sit down before he began to make inroads into the bangers and mash.

"Is it true?" asked Geraldine Biggs.

Albus's hand, halfway to the sausage, paused. "Is what true?"

"You really get to compete? In the tournament?" Geraldine's eyes shone, and not in a way Albus liked.

He felt his appetite dwindle. "Yes," he said, drawing his hand away from the sausage. "I don't have a choice. It's a magical contract."

Beside Geraldine, Tony Paglio swallowed a huge bite of toast. "Wish the goblet had picked me," he muttered, and crammed half a slice of toast into his mouth. He garbled something around it that Albus didn't bother to interpret.

Evan, however, had spent most of his life stuffing his gullet and talking with his mouth full. He had no trouble whatsoever understanding Tony. He glared. "Watch it, mate, or I'll hex your fingers together and stick them to some professor's ar—"

"Evan!" Rose scolded.

Evan just raised an eyebrow at Tony and went back to shoveling food in. Albus watched a bit jealously, wishing that nausea hadn't completely stolen what was left of his desire to eat.

"So how'd you do it?" Dexter Colvin asked. "I thought the Age Line was impossible to trick."

Albus shrugged. "Didn't. Don't know how the goblet got my name."

But Dexter looked unconvinced. "Right. If you don't want to share your secret, just say so. You don't have to lie—"

"I'm _not _lying!" Albus slammed a hand down on the table and had the rest of the Gryffindor first years staring at him in shock. "I didn't put my name in the goblet, I don't know who did, and no, I don't know why it would even pick me, okay?"

"Maybe James did it," Winnie Cates suggested, looking down the table to where James and five of his friends sat. The friends, Albus noted, seemed to be hanging onto James's every word; he was gesticulating wildly, nearly hitting some fifth years sitting nearby. As Albus watched, everybody around James broke out into laughter.

"No," Albus said vaguely. "He loves being champion, but he's only a second year. Even Mum and Dad said that's too advanced for him."

Immediately, everybody (save Evan and Rose) in the vicinity looked intrigued. "Your dad was here?" Geraldine asked for the group. "What was he like?"

"He was like he always is—like my dad." Albus, quite fed up with all of his classmates, glared and grabbed his rucksack. "I'm going to class."

"We've still got fifteen minutes," Winnie, always the sensible one, pointed out.

Albus merely strode off. Immediately, Rose scooped up her own bag and nudged Evan. "C'mon. Let's go with him."

Evan glanced longingly at all of the food left on the table. "But…"

"E_van_."

"Fine." With a wistful sigh, he grabbed as much food as he could carry, stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth, and followed his friend. Rose's short legs ate up the distance between the Great Hall and Albus rather quickly. Evan lagged behind. He was still chewing as he reached the cousins. Though Albus's expression promised dire consequences to anybody that dare approach him, his friends slipped easily into pace on either side of him. Evan cleared his throat. "So. Rose. What'd you get for number five on the Transfiguration questions?"

"Not telling."

"Aw, c'mon. Just a hint?"

"No."

"I might be failing."

"You're clearly not. You changed the shoelace into straw just fine last week."

"Did not, it was still a bit too flexible, and you know how hopeless I am at everything—"

"I'm _not _letting you copy my homework." Rose rolled her eyes.

"Not copy," Evan said quickly, using what he probably thought was a charming smile. In a few years, it might be. "Borrow, and compare. I mean, I wrote my own answer to number five and everything. But I want to…double-check."

"Oh please. You'll just copy my answer over yours, and you know it."

They continued their routine all the way up to the Transfiguration classroom, Albus silent between them. Evan begged half-heartedly, Rose laughed and refused. And by the time they reached the classroom, Albus had found his smile again.

* * *

If this was what first year was going to be like, Albus Potter wasn't sure he was going to survive seven years at Hogwarts.

Panting, he heaved his backpack through the portrait hole and dropped it just on the other side, kicking it out of the way so that nobody would trip on it. He leaned against the wall and put his hands on his knees, wheezing. He'd be up for _hours _with just the homework from Charms alone. And he was fairly suspicious that he was forgetting something that he had to do for Astronomy that night. And Professor Hopewell had assigned an unprecedented amount of inches for the new potions essay. Albus had forgotten when it was due, but he knew it was sooner than he hoped.

He closed his eyes and wondered why his parents had never mentioned how _hard _Hogwarts was, whenever they talked about how wonderful it was.

"What's up, Al?"

There were perks and disadvantages to being related to half of Gryffindor Tower. Albus never had to go far to find help on homework. But at times, it got a bit crowded.

He opened one eye to see his cousin Lexy at the base of the stairs leading to the girls' side, resting one delicate hand on the banister. "Hey," he greeted her, closing his eye again and leaning back in hopes to relieve his burning shoulders. Carrying the rucksack all day had been anything but a picnic.

"You feeling okay there?"

Albus just nodded and looked up in time to see Lexy pick up his bag as though she'd cast a weightless charm on it. She lobbed it easily onto the nearest study table.

"Thanks," Albus muttered, straightening. Unless he was specifically thinking about it, he always forgot that Uncle Bill's daughters had all inherited Veela-like strength. Lexy's twin brother Dimitri had missed out on the strength. Dim might be as strawberry-blonde as his sisters, but he knew better than to get into arm-wrestling contests with them.

"So. How's our little champion doing?" Lexy asked, plopping herself onto the study table and ignoring the chair beside it. "James is walking around school strutting, by the way, and Victoire's been getting all of the attention." She paused to think and absently added, "As usual."

"I'm okay," Albus lied. He hadn't eaten or slept, nor had he showered, so he knew his hair was sticking up worse than usual. And he was out of breath and shaky.

"Really?" Lexy crossed her legs and examined her fingernails idly. "You don't seem so hot there, cousin of mine."

"I'm okay," Albus repeated, but he didn't move away from the wall.

Lexy looked up to smile at him. If he'd thought about it, he might have noticed there was a certain avian quality to her smile, which meant that she knew something he didn't, but he was just too tired to care. When she hopped off the study table and walked toward him, however, he tried to step back warily. As he was already against the wall, it didn't work too well.

"C'mon, cuz," Lexy told him. "We're taking a walk."

"But my homework—"

Lexy reached one long arm behind her and grabbed his bag. "You can work on it when we get to where we're going."

"Where're we going?"

"That would be telling. C'mon, soldier, march." To ensure that he did, Lexy grabbed his shoulder and propelled him toward the portrait hole. Together, they left the common room behind and headed toward the stairs. "You and James probably don't know this, but Gran Molly and Grandda sent a letter this morning to the rest of us warning us that we'd better look out for you."

Albus felt an annoyed flush heat his cheeks. "I don't need babysitters."

"Al, hon, you're eleven. Of course you don't need a babysitter. But Gran Molly's a bit frightening when she's angry. And I don't fancy getting another Howler—" Apparently, at fifteen, Lexy held the record for Howlers received for the sheer number of detentions she'd earned from being discovered with random boys in broom closets. At home, Albus and Lily had sniggered every time they'd heard about a new incident, but now that he was at Hogwarts and he saw how the boys' eyes followed Lexy around whenever she went anywhere, it worried Albus a bit.

She steered him down a staircase he hadn't had the opportunity to take before. "So we're just going to make sure you don't die," she finished.

Albus rolled his eyes. "Appreciate it."

"And _that _means making sure you actually eat something, mister. Because you're not going to make it very far in this tournament if you're wilting away from starvation. And where do you think the rest of us would be if that happened, huh? Aunt Ginny's almost as scary as Grandma Molly when she puts her mind to it."

"Scarier," Albus agreed, looking around as they continued to walk. He was now thoroughly lost.

"So since you've skipped the last two meals and you've got the same metabolism James, angel as he is, does, I know you've got to eat." They stopped abruptly by a still-life of a very large bowl of fruit. Lexy immediately smiled. "Merlin bless Uncle George."

She reached out and tickled the pear.

Just like Gryffindor Tower, the portrait swung open to the side, revealing a room just as large as the Great Hall. Albus didn't have time to stare before he was nudged inside: house elves like Winky and Kreacher rushed about, solidarity showing in the fluffy white Hogwarts tea towels they wore. Off to his right, four long tables stretched on seemingly forever, in exactly the same arrangement as the tables in the Great Hall. Elves rushed along them, depositing the golden plates they used upstairs with frightening accuracy.

To his left seemed to be the actual kitchen. Tiny hands stirred great cauldrons of what looked to be carrot-and-leek soup, while a spit with a giant hunk of some kind of meat turned itself evenly. All around it, elves dodged nimbly, toting great big serving bowls. The aromas drifting from those alone made Albus's mouth begin to water.

Amid such industry, it amazed him that any of the elves would even take notice of him and his cousin, but one appeared among the fold, smiling widely at Lexy. "Miss Weasley has come back! We is pleased to see Miss Weasley—and her friend?" Inquiringly, the head tilted toward Albus.

He felt the warm pressure of one of Lexy's hands on his shoulder. "My cousin," she explained. "Albus. He's currently dying of starvation, and I figured you'd be just the elf to ask, Fredo."

The elf beamed, the wrinkles in his face contorting. Despite growing up in a house with Kreacher, whose mutterings had always fascinated him, and Winky, who hiccupped quite a lot, Albus was intrigued enough to study the way the elf's leathery skin folded and moved as he spoke. He didn't get a chance to observe for long—Fredo whisked away and returned a blink later bearing a tray nearly as big as he himself was.

"I can get that," Albus offered awkwardly, but Fredo was having none of it. With an imperious nod, he ushered the cousins over to one of the great tables—the one mirroring the Ravenclaw table, Albus realized, but he didn't comment—and set the tray, heaped with foodstuffs that made Albus's mouth water even more, between them. "Will Miss Weasley and her cousin be needing anything else?"

Lexy laughed. "Got enough to feed an entire Quidditch team here, Fredo. We should be good."

"Certainly." And without a sound, the elf vanished. For a brief second, Albus had thought that he had Apparated, but he caught just a flicker of tea towel in the corner of his eye as the elf rushed away.

Albus needed no prompting. His stomach gave an almighty growl; he dove for the food and began stuffing his face, barely tasting it as he chewed (though what he did taste was absolutely delicious).

"Whoa, dragon bait, slow down a bit." To ensure that he did, Lexy snatched a sweet-roll from his hand. "Pace yourself. It's not leprechaun gold—the food will still be there when you've swallowed."

Obediently, Albus did so, but he stole the roll back swiftly.

"So Vicky's going to be busy training for the tournament herself," Lexy began, nibbling on her own sweet-roll, "probably too busy to help you and James out. So Dim and I will do it."

"She hates it when you call her Vicky," Albus put in unhelpfully.

"Sister's privilege. James hasn't listened to me for years, and I doubt that's going to change overnight. So Dim'll help him when he's not busy being a complete geek and studying for his O.W.L.s."

Albus wondered that if, being Dimitri's twin, Lexy had O.W.L.s to take, too, but he didn't say anything.

"And I imagine Freddy might help out some, too, when he's not beating things with a club," Lexy added absently. "And you'll have Rose, too."

"So my chances of dying are now just probable, rather than likely?" Albus asked around a mouthful of roast beef.

"That's the spirit. Where's your timetable?"

Albus gestured toward his bag in invitation for Lexy to get it herself, as he was too busy wiping roast beef juice from his face. "Back pocket," he muttered, his words muffled by the beef.

Lexy opened the bag, rifling though quills, ink, and other things an eleven-year-old can collect over a couple of months at a magical school. She unearthed the timetable, nearly invisible at the stress points, and spread it out, well away from the food. "Hmm. I'm jealous. What an easy schedule."

"Easy?" Albus spluttered. "I'm about to drown in coursework!"

Lexy rolled her eyes in that infuriating way older people had of mocking Albus's age. He scowled.

"Let's see…" And she unearthed a second timetable, this one a tad more pristine than Albus's, and set it next to the first. "Looks like we have the same free period on Wednesday—I'm supposed to do my revising then, but whatever—and on Thursday, too. Wow, you got Double Charms with the Ravenclaws? That one's new."

"We still have Double Potions with the Slytherins," Albus muttered.

"Yeah, I never understood why they put the biggest rivals together in a class with such dangerous ingredients," Lexy mused absently. She grabbed a quill and stuck it between her teeth while she searched Albus's bag for ink. When she had both, she scribbled something on Albus's timetable and handed it to him. She'd written him a schedule, he realized, and nearly sighed at the thought of more work.

"We'll work together on three days a week, getting you prepped for whatever magical creature they pick—"

"How are you so sure it's a magical creature?"

"The first task always is. Don't worry, that's Freddy's best subject. So we'll bodily drag him from his broom, take away his club, and get him to help us." Lexy smiled at the thought of manhandling their fourteen-year-old cousin, already two stone heavier and several centimeters taller than fifteen-year-old Dimitri. "Have him help you and James both and all. Then after the first task—"

"If we survive it—"

"I can work with you, and Dim'll work with James. See? It all works out. And I highly doubt McGonagall's going to let you die. You're Potters. You've got, like, nine lives or something. Are you done?"

Albus looked down to discover that he had cleaned his plate of anything but crumbs. And he felt much, much better. He nodded.

"Good. Let's head on back, then. Don't want anybody to miss the two favorite cousins." Lexy's eyes twinkled as she grabbed Albus's backpack (again as though it weighed mere ounces). She glanced toward the milling crowd of house elves. "Thanks, Fredo!"

"Anytime, Miss!" piped a squeaky voice from amid the mob.

With a hand on his shoulder, Lexy guided Albus from the kitchens and back toward Gryffindor Tower. "Got an owl from Mum last night," she said conversationally, dodging around a couple suits of armor battling it to the death in the hallway as though such things happened every day. Considering that they lived in an enchanted castle, Albus figured it did. "Aunt Penny's pregnant."

"Again?" Albus asked, somewhat dismayed. Uncle Percy had the most boring children on the face of the planet.

Lexy, understanding him perfectly, laughed. "We'll corrupt one of them someday, Al. My money's on Iggy. He's due to start Hogwarts with Lily, right?"

"Yeah. Let me tell you, Lily's thrilled." Albus rolled his eyes; his sister was always grouped together with Ignatius, Uncle Percy's eldest, and she complained bitterly about it every time. Albus didn't blame her. Ignatius redefined boring.

"Don't worry, once he starts Hogwarts and gets away from Uncle Percy, we'll have quite a wild child on our hands." Lexy smiled secretively, and started to usher Albus up a staircase. She stilled abruptly; her hand on Albus's shoulder tightened.

He turned to protest and spotted the young man halfway up the staircase. Even if the boy hadn't been several stairs up, Albus would have had to crane his neck to get a proper look—the stranger would have towered over even Uncle Ron, who was the tallest person Albus knew. He had a skinny, underfed look about him so that his adam's apple bobbed prominently. And he had blue hair, like Teddy Lupin sometimes got whenever he wasn't thinking hard enough. It matched the loosely knotted Ravenclaw tie.

When the stranger spotted Lexy, his face contorted into a sneer so fast that Albus immediately disliked everything about him. Even the blue hair. Which otherwise would have been kind of cool.

"Ah, Weasley," he sneered, his Irish brogue thick. Blue eyes the same color as the hair drifted down to Albus. The sneer intensified. "He's a bit young for even your charms, isn't he?"

Lexy's grip was now painfully tight on Albus's shoulder, but her face was cool. "Yeah," she agreed, and purposely studied the nails of her other hand, adopting an impressively bored expression. "And he's also my cousin, so I suppose that disqualifies him from the abomination of my Veela charm."

She shot a deliberately sunny smile at the boy. "Fancy meeting you here, Sullivan. Bit far from the Ravenclaw Commons, aren't you?"

The adam's apple bobbed. Albus wasn't sure in the dim light, but he could almost swear twin spots of red appeared on Sullivan's cheeks. But his expression mirrored Lexy's. "Bit far from the Gryffindor Commons, too."

"Just showing my cousin the school," Lexy purred.

"What, rather than looking for unsuspecting victims?"

Albus, beside Lexy, tensed. "Watch it," he growled.

Sullivan blinked. "Stalwart little firstie, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am." Feeling older than he actually was, Albus rolled his eyes at the title. "And she's only an eighth Veela. It's not like it's that strong. So you can just leave her alone."

He felt Lexy tense, as though about to laugh, but the fifth year Gryffindor merely gave a coolly superior smirk and released his shoulder. She sauntered up the steps separating Albus and Sullivan, and deliberately trailed a finger down the Ravenclaw's arm.

Now Albus definitely wasn't imagining that Sullivan's cheeks were bright red.

"You can relax, Sullivan," Lexy continued in that oily voice Albus hated, leaning very close to Sullivan, "he's telling the truth. I'm not going to seduce you in the corridor. No need to worry."

Sullivan's eyes narrowed. "Who's worried?"

"Maybe you should be," Lexy informed him, smiling wickedly. She tossed her cascade of strawberry blonde hair back and gestured. "C'mon, Albus, let's leave Sullivan to his duties. You've homework."

"Albus," Sullivan repeated, mostly to himself. His expression was no longer mocking, but openly curious, as he turned it on Albus. "You're Albus Potter? The one picked to be champion?"

Albus straightened his shoulders defiantly. "What of it?"

"Everybody in Ravenclaw's wondering how you and your brother got your names in the goblet."

"We didn't," Albus said simply. "So I don't know how the goblet got my name."

Sullivan opened his mouth to say something, but Lexy laid a hand on his arm, drawing his attention to her. "He's just a first year." She said it quietly, but Albus still heard. He scowled deeply, even as Sullivan gave a tight nod. Lexy turned back to Albus. "Time to go, cuz. Sullivan. It's been a pleasure. As always." She rolled her eyes as she grabbed Albus's arm to pull him up the stairs and away from the Ravenclaw.

"Lexy." Sullivan's call stopped both cousins. They turned back to look at him "Kitchens are still off limits to students, even part Veelas. I'll have to take points next time."

"Bite me," Lexy suggested, and pulled Albus away before the Potter could say anything. Once they were out of earshot, she let the scowl come. "Git."

"He's a Prefect?"

"And a remarkably thick bas—idiot," Lexy censored herself quickly. "Close-minded. Ignorant. And frustrated because I'm beating him in all of our classes."

Albus, who was under the impression that Lexy had not studied a day in her life, actually stopped to stare at his cousin.

"Oh, you didn't hear?" Lexy said it with perfect ease, grabbing the front of his robes to haul him along. "I'm brilliant. Even Victoire's jealous. Now c'mon, let's go get started on homework so we can teach you how not to die in your first year at Hogwarts."

**A/N the Second: So that's Lexy. Yes, she's my favorite. And I like Sullivan, too. Poor boy's over his head. See you next update.**


	4. Things Go Boom

**A/N: This chapter depleted my buffer a little more than I'd like, and I'm currently stuck, so I'm a little worried, but it's not a terribly huge deal. As soon as my fascination with my new phone fades, I'm sure that my enthusiasm for putting the Potters in difficult situations will return. Or so you should hope. In this chapter, I explore some interesting sides to James and Albus's relationship, as well as introduce the twin brother to Lexy.**

**Oh, and to the reader that pointed out that only Albus received Lily Potter's eyes... all I can say to that is whoops. And that I'm about a thousand miles away from my copy of the seventh book...**

**Disclaimer: In an attempt to make my disclaimer more interesting, I'm going to tell you what I'd like to own--but don't. I'd LIKE to own my own pocket copy of Colin Creevey because I think he'd be fun. I'd LIKE to call Lexy mine, but I can't until I change her name and give her a slightly different personality to hide that fact. If you ever read any of my published books and go, hmm, that character sounds familiar... please just don't mention it to JKR. Thanks, I appreciate that. In short, I'd like to own all of this, but I don't, so I'm not using it to make money and please don't sue me. Still a penniless video editor. Just one with a cool phone.**

**Chapter Four: Things Go Boom**

The first task was slated for the third week of November, which didn't give them much time at all. If the first year at Hogwarts was normally supposed to be hard, Albus, Evan, and Rose never got a chance to find out. Just days after the goblet cursed the Potters for a second generation, Albus and James were put through the wringer by both their cousins and their professors. Professors stopped Albus before he left class, usually pressing books they thought might be helpful into his hands. And Victoire, Lexy, and Dimitri began holding practice sessions, teaching both boys absolutely useful spells. After the first session, Evan and Rose insisted on coming along. Evan because he wanted to learn to duel, and Rose because no piece of knowledge was ever worth not knowing.

The sessions wore Albus out so much that every night, he collapsed into bed, usually asleep before he hit the mattress. Dimitri especially was a slave driver. He cast one harmless jinx after another at Albus while the first year tried valiantly to perfect a shield charm, something most students did not learn until fifth or sixth year.

"Concentrate," Dim ordered and pointed his wand at Albus again.

Albus panted. So far he'd endured a Jelly Legs Jinx, a Tap-Dancing curse, a Leg-Locker curse, and once, when Dim was feeling particularly vindictive, a Body Bind. Every muscle ached like he'd sprinted a five kilometer race.

Across the classroom they'd appropriated for practice, Victoire raised her head from a textbook. "Give it a rest, Dim," she suggested. "He's exhausted."

"He needs to know this spell," Dim insisted, pushing his fringe from his eyes. "It's the most useful one in a wizard's repertoire. Uncle Harry told me so himself."

"I can do it," Albus insisted, still panting. "One more try. I've got it this time, I swear."

Victoire rolled her eyes and didn't bother to point out that he'd claimed that the last four times. And had ended up dancing the Tarantella each time.

Albus forced his aching wand arm up, set his stance. And hoped that Dimitri wouldn't hit him with something that made him run around. He couldn't handle much more.

He could hear Evan and Rose behind him, cheerfully throwing curses at each other and dodging. Or tripping, in Evan's case, as he hadn't bothered to tie his bootlaces. Rose, of course, had mastered the shield charm on her second try, several hours before. But she had more fun jumping and twisting to dodge whatever Evan threw at her.

Albus, however, didn't have a choice. He _had _to master this charm.

So he waited, watched Dim wind up to cast the curse. And shouted the spell as loud as he could.

The beam of purple light shot at him too fast for him to duck—but just before it hit him, it struck the air and shot to the left. It hit the unsuspecting Evan between the shoulder blades. With a shout, the first-year shot toward the ceiling. Everybody in the room winced at the loud thud as his head hit. Whimpering, he drifted back to the ground. Rose rushed up to him, immediately pushing aside sandy blond hair to study the knot on his head.

Victoire broke the silence. "_What _was that?"

Albus froze, staring guiltily at his friend. Evan's eyes appeared to be crossed.

"Wasn't a shield charm," Dimitri observed. "They're supposed to absorb, not deflect."

"Really powerful ones can shoot the spells right back at you," Rose informed both, patting Evan's hair back into place.

"And make them stronger?" Dim challenged. "I only tried to hit him with a floating hex, not a flying curse."

"Are you okay?" Albus asked Evan worriedly, moving to his friend's side.

The other boy shook his head to clear it. And despite the knot quickly rising on his head, his grin blossomed fast. "Bloody hell, Al! I got to fly!"

Rose tsked at him. "That's what flying lessons are for."

"Either way. It was still awesome." However, when Evan rose to his feet, his eyes rolled back in his head—and Albus and Rose barely managed to catch him before he hit the ground.

"Right. Time to go see Madam Pomfrey." Victoire nudged the first years aside and easily hefted the boy. "And next time we practice dueling, let's put a cushioning charm on the ceiling, shall we?" She nodded for Dimitri to lead the way, as neither Albus or Rose had done anything that merited a trip to the Hospital Wing yet.

* * *

A week after the announcement had been made, declaring him a champion, Albus sat down at breakfast to find a school owl patiently awaiting him. Evan had this time lost his right sock, making both boys several minutes late. Despite the fact that he was still vaguely annoyed at the rest of Gryffindors in his year, Albus sat down beside Tony Paglio and reached for the marmalade.

"Oi." Tony elbowed him, nodded at the owl. "That's for you."

"For me?" Who on earth would send him postage via a school owl? Albus glanced questioningly at the owl, but it seemed more interested in fluffing its feathers and informing him with an owlish look that it was annoyed with him for being late. Feeling sheepish, Albus offered some toast and took the note tied to the owl's leg.

"_Mr. Potter,_

"_Please do me the honor of having tea with me this evening at 4:30. Your father feels there are several stories about his own experiences with the Tri-Wizard Tournament I should share with you and your brother. My house is the cottage located just behind Greenhouse Five, it's hard to miss. The password is, of course, 'Nargles.'_

"_Looking forward to tea,_

"_Professor Longbottom._"

Albus glanced at the professors' table, but Professor Longbottom was in earnest conversation with Professor Flitwick. With a shrug, Albus looked down the Gryffindor table and spotted Rose, three seats down. As he had suspected, she had a book propped up against the pumpkin juice jug. She twirled a quill idly between her forefinger and her thumb.

Without saying a word, he leaned over and snatched the quill.

"Hey!"

"I'll give it right back in a sec—hold on—" With his tongue between his teeth, Albus turned Professor Longbottom's note over and wrote "_I'll be there. Can't wait._" He then tied the note to the owl's leg and handed an indignant Rose her quill.

"You could have asked," she informed him primly.

"Sorry."

Rose ignored him to focus on Evan, who was stuffing his face as though his life depended on it. "How's your head?"

"Still vaguely egg-shaped, thanks."

"And hard as a rock, I'll wager," Albus added.

Evan merely tapped himself on the crown of his head with a fist while he reached for another helping of scrambled eggs with his free hand.

Just after four o'clock that day, Albus looked up from his chess match with Evan to see James standing over both of them, hands on his hips. "We're going to be late if you don't move now," he informed Albus, and strode off.

"Your brother's quite the friendly sort," Evan observed.

"You're not kidding." Rolling his eyes, Albus snatched up his cloak, gave Rose a good-bye wave, and took off after his brother. He was still considerably shorter than James, but he caught up with him on the main staircase leading to the massive front doors. "Oi. Why the rush?"

"He's going to tell us stories about Dad," James said, his eyes shining. "Good ones. Not like the ones Dad tells when Mum's around. The _edited _ones. Neville was there. He can tell us the real stories."

Albus, who personally knew just how far Ginny Potter's reach stretched, figured that Professor Longbottom's stories might be just a little edited. If Ginny had anything to say about it.

"So Dim says you knocked your friend Ethan out with a really great shield charm," James went on, sounding impressed.

Albus's chest puffed out with pride, even as he corrected, "Evan. And yeah. It was an accident." He thought about it. "But it was still pretty cool." Once he'd been assured that Evan was all right, that is.

"Dim's gonna teach me how to duel proper, with real curses and everything," James boasted. Instead of sticking to the path, he scrambled over a shrubbery, trusting that Albus would follow, as he had his entire life. "So I can fight back, he says. I'm gonna get really good and take Freddy on—_and _I'm gonna win."

"Sure," Albus muttered. "Sure you will."

Thankfully, James didn't hear him, as he was too busy clambering over bushes.

"Are you sure this way's faster?" Albus questioned, but he still followed his brother.

"Positive."

Though Albus panted a bit when they finally emerged, James wasn't even breathing hard. And true to his word, James's path was faster: they burst out of the bushes right behind Greenhouse Four, an intriguing, dark building that Albus longed to explore. He trotted alongside James until they rounded Greenhouse Five. Professor Longbottom's cottage was nestled among plant life and bushes that looked as though they might spring to life and start waving spooky branches at the Potters. They gave the password to the gate—"What's a Nargle?" James asked. Albus shrugged—and trotted up the front path.

James didn't seem bothered by the eerie plant life at all. He cast Albus a cocky grin and knocked on the front door.

Professor Longbottom answered after a few beats, wearing the Muggle trousers and dirt-stained shirt both boys were accustomed to. Seeing him in robes always perturbed Albus, so he felt nothing but relief at the usual outfit.

"Boys," Professor Longbottom said, raising his eyebrows. "You're early. For once in your lives."

"Hiya Uncle—Professor Longbottom." Albus grinned up at him and received the usual hair ruffle for his trouble. "James here wanted to come early—he couldn't wait to hear the stories you promised."

"I did promise you stories," Professor Longbottom said absently. He ran a hand through his hair, and Albus thought he looked rather distracted. But he waved the boys inside. "Come in, come in. I've got to put the kettle on yet. Wasn't expecting either of you this early."

As Professor Longbottom led them through a tiny, picturesque cottage, Albus craned his neck to get a closer look at the different plants around the building. It smelled almost exactly like one of the greenhouses, which fascinated him. Home always smelled like the lemon polish potion Kreacher used to clean the banisters. He wasn't sure which he liked more.

"So I understand your cousins have been helping you out," Professor Longbottom said, leading them into a small dining room crowded with plants and interesting vegetation. He moved quickly to the table and collected a scroll of parchment and a quill, shoving them hastily into a drawer. "Teaching you to duel and whatnot."

"Definitely," James informed him. "Dimitri's really good at it—he helped Albus learn a shield charm the other night. I'm going to learn better charms. Not just that boring defense stuff."

"Your father would be the first to tell you the necessity of a good defense spell," Professor Longbottom muttered absently, running one hand through his hair and waving a set of dirty dishes to a tiny sink with the other.

"It wasn't all defense," Albus felt the need to say. "The charm—what's the word? Reflected?—the spell and it hit Evan."

"And is Mr. Newcastle all right?"

"He got hit on the head pretty hard."

"By a shield charm?" Professor Longbottom's eyebrows went up.

"By a levitation spell," Albus corrected. "Dim threw it at me—he was only trying to levitate me a little, he said, but Evan shot all the way to the ceiling." He remembered, with sickening clarity, the sound of his friend's skull thudding against a wooden rafter, and very nearly shuddered.

Professor Longbottom made a noise in the back of his throat as he waved his wand at the kettle. Immediately, it began to shrill. "Pretty cool, huh?" James asked, for once on his brother's side. "Wish I could'a seen that."

"As long as Mr. Newcastle wasn't seriously injured, I suppose I would have liked to see that as well." Professor Longbottom took a seat at the table and studied his young charges. Albus's hair waved, made more unkempt by the bushes he had no doubt scrambled through. James, very much a miniature, tame-haired version of his father indeed, bounced one knee, eager to hear the stories. Neither had realized the full magnitude of the challenges they faced, something that both pleased and frightened the Herbology professor. "So. You want to hear stories about your father's time with the Tournament."

Both boys nodded eagerly.

"Well, as you know, we were roommates when we went to Hogwarts—you know, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth," Professor Longbottom teased.

Albus grinned.

"So I got to be there for a lot of the front row action, you might say." Professor Longbottom waved his wand again and a plate of biscuits floated to the table. "Now, don't ruin your supper, as I don't fancy answering to your mother, but help yourselves. Anyway, it was my fourth year that your father's name was pulled from the goblet, very much like yours both were." He paused at that, frowning a bit as a thought niggled just beyond his reach. "Either way, we didn't know why it had been called at that time, either."

"It was a Death Eater, wasn't it?" James asked, his eyes shining with excitement.

"Eventually," Professor Longbottom stressed, "it was discovered that a Death Eater—I'm not telling you his name, boys, so you can just forget about that. When your father wants you to know these things, he will. Anyway, this…individual had cast several strong bamboozlement charms on the Goblet, forcing it to believe that your father was from a fourth school entering the tournament. And as he was the only participant from this school, his name was called."

"So you _can _trick the Goblet?" Albus asked, fascinated.

"Apparently."

"So maybe somebody tricked it to put our names in it."

Professor Longbottom took a long drink of tea. "We can't find any evidence of that. But we're still looking."

Albus frowned. "Does the Goblet think?"

"I've never given it much thought," Professor Longbottom mused. "I suppose on some level, there is some sentience…"

Albus, who had no idea what 'sentience' meant, though he fully intended to ask Rose later, reached for a biscuit. James, on the other hand, picked up the idea as easily as he had done his entire life. He'd always spoken for his younger siblings, prompting Harry and Ginny to worry that Albus might never talk. "So it had to think about picking us, didn't it?" he asked, snatching another biscuit (his third).

"I suppose."

That was enough for James, who stuffed the biscuit in his mouth. "So, Dad really faced a dragon?"

"That he did." It seemed like Professor Longbottom had to forcibly pull himself back to the conversation. He smiled at the Potters. "It's tradition, by the way, for schools to cheat on the first task so that the students have some warning of what they'll be facing. Hagrid showed your dad the dragons a couple of days before the task, if I remember correctly."

"Was he scared?" Albus wondered.

"Well, let's put it this way. Your father wandered around with a glazed look in his eye for days—walked into walls, I'm positive—"

By the time the tea, most of it left in the cups, had cooled, Professor Longbottom had chronicled Harry Potter's time with the Tri-Wizard Tournament for the younger Potters, with pauses for questions ("Why'd you take our Mum to the ball and not Dad?"). As a result, James's cheeks were flushed with excitement and Albus's were pale as they scrambled back to Gryffindor Tower to work on homework before dinner.

"Dragons!" James crowed excitedly, nearly bouncing as he kept to the path (Professor Longbottom had scolded both for using the shortcut). "Think we'll get to fight dragons, Al?"

"It'll probably be something else," Albus muttered. When James looked a trifle put out by that, he hastened to add, "Something cooler, probably."

"That's stupid. Nothing's cooler than dragons."

Albus personally felt unicorns to be much cooler than dragons, as they didn't have the habit of disemboweling people, charring the remains, and gobbling it all up—but he just nodded. "I guess you're right. Dragons it is."

"Of course," James amended with all the grace of an older brother allowing a younger sibling to be right only once, "it could be something else. Don't want to fall in the same trap, and they know we'll just summon broomsticks like Dad did, right?"

Albus doubted that he could even summon a pencil, much less a broomstick. "Right," he lied, and they crossed the lawn to the front doors. As it wasn't quite dinner yet, students were taking advantage of the weather by either studying or playing on the lawn. Two wizards tossed a bright red ball not unlike a Quidditch. It screamed every time it hit the air, making the boys laugh. As Albus watched, the taller of the pair streaked after the ball, made an impressive leap, and caught it on a roll. When he sprang to his feet, Albus saw the blue hair. He curled his lip. Sullivan, the rude Ravenclaw.

"What's got you making a stink face?" James wondered, for once noticing something outside his own thoughts.

Albus nodded to where Sullivan reached back and hurtled the screaming red ball at his friend, like a rocket. James eyed the Ravenclaw speculatively.

"Oh, yeah. I've heard of him," he said. "That's Aidan Sullivan. Got the best arm out of all of the school Keepers—even though Baybeck's a better Keeper. 'Course, she's a Captain, and Sullivan's only a Prefect."

James's voice told Albus quite clearly which position he found more impressive. Though Albus figured there was more to it. Allison Baybeck was Victoire's roommate, and the other reason why all the boys stared at the seventh-year Gryffindor girls.

"I don't like him," he said now, succinctly glaring as Sullivan caught another impossible pass.

"Oh. Well, yeah, he plays for Ravenclaw." And in true form, James didn't bother to ask why as he bounded the front steps. Albus followed more slowly, pausing one last time to glare over his shoulder at Sullivan.

This time, the boy caught a pass and moved to throw it back. As he did, he spotted Albus. Seeing the open hostility on the first year's face, he paused and grinned humorlessly. He bowed his head, slightly, like a fencer conceding a point in a match, and turned back to his game.

Thoughtful now, Albus disappeared into the school.

* * *

Unfortunately when due to face something large, foreboding, and likely fond of flesh, life passes quickly. Albus discovered this the hard way. Days began to blur together—he got up earlier than his roommates and woke Evan so that the other boy would have time to find everything that he needed. He ate breakfast, went to classes, endured lessons on spells that his cousins had already ensured he knew. And when he finished with classes, there were dueling lessons with Dimitri, or magical creatures lessons with Freddy, or just hours and hours of coursework. He fell into bed exhausted, only to get up and repeat the cycle.

It was as though he, Rose, and Evan were on an accelerated course through their first year. While it helped to know the spells already when the Flitwick and McGonagall taught them in class, he sometimes felt as though his brain might simply melt away from all of the spells Lexy and his other cousins had crammed into him.

"You're doing fine," she assured him when he voiced that fear to her. "I wrote to Gran Molly today and she's impressed that you and James are both learning so well."

James, who'd taken to falling asleep in class and losing house points, wasn't satisfied with Lexy's assessment of the situation. "We have to know more," he insisted. He'd begrudgingly agreed to study with Evan, Rose and Albus, as his friends were out laying pranks along Professor Hopewell's walk to her classroom in the morning. Though Albus had protested, claiming Professor Hopewell to be the best professor they had—apart from Professor Longbottom—the second years had been adamant. James had begged off using the Tournament as an excuse.

"What?" he'd snarled at the first years as he plopped next to Albus. "I'm not pranking Hopewell."

"Because she's too nice?" Evan asked innocently. The first years had observed that several of the older students blushed quite a lot in Professor Hopewell's presence. "Or do you think she's pretty?"

James flushed, but his glare warned Evan against provoking him further. "Besides," the second year muttered, "everybody knows Neville likes her."

"Neville?" Evan echoed, confused.

"Professor Longbottom," Rose informed him. She turned a shrewd look toward James. "And I didn't think boys noticed that sort of thing."

James just shrugged. "Heard Victoire say it once." He bent over his own book, as if diligently studying, when Albus knew he was only waiting for his ears to stop burning red. "Curse it!"

All three of the first years jumped at James's shout. "What is it?" Albus demanded, looking up from a potions essay.

"We have to know more," James muttered. He glanced at Albus. "Or at least, I have to. Dad would've won the Tournament if things had been different, so now it's my job—"

Sometimes, Albus loathed being the middle child, especially when the oldest was bright, amusing, precocious James Potter. But there were times he was grateful that he hadn't been born first. Even if he personally felt a lot of James's "oldest child" motivation was misplaced, he knew that he'd feel the same way, if he were in James's shoes.

"You'll do fine," Rose told him matter-of-factly. "Even facing three seventeen-year-olds."

"They don't scare me."

"No, I imagine they don't." Her part said, Rose dropped her gaze back to her own potions essay. She might have finished it earlier, but she'd been in the library, looking up more interesting and simple curses and hexes for Albus to use against his unnamed foe in the First Task.

Evan had finished the essay first and had moved on to the charms theory questions. "Oi," he said suddenly, nudging Albus. "Pass me the Scrivener's guide, will you? The Kleinfetter's doesn't have anything on inanimate objects dancing."

"Try tap dancing," Rose said even as Albus handed the book over. She turned to Albus with a grin. "Well, if the monster's truly an Acromantula like Freddy thinks, you can try making it dance. I hear they've got four left feet instead of the regular two."

"Oh, ha ha."

But Evan grinned. "That was a good one," he decided, and opened the guide. After that, they fell silent, only looking up when something happened in the common room. A few of the fourth years were working off stress for an upcoming Transfiguration exam by tossing around a screaming red ball like the one Albus had seen Sullivan throwing. Every time it neared the fire, it let out a whimper. And when it crashed into Albus's inkpot, splashing the first year right in the face and ruining his potions essay, it laughed.

Albus, on the other hand, yanked out his wand and blew up the ball with a deafening _BOOM_!

Silence reigned in the common room.

"_Albus_!" Rose hissed as shreds drifted all around the stunned group. "What did you do?"

Albus stared at the scorch mark on the table, quite taken aback. "I—I don't know," he confessed, watching one scrap of red settle on a stunned Evan's knee. Sheepishly, he wiped ink off of his face and turned to the fourth years. "I'm—I'm sorry—"

One of the braver ones, whose hair had been blown comically backward by the blast, reached down and grabbed a large red scrap. He held it up. "That was," he decided, "awesome!"

To Albus's shock, he broke out into a grin.

"But I've destroyed the ball—"

Rose whipped out her own wand. "_Reparo_!" Immediately, the scraps flew out of the fourth year's hand and the ball sat in Albus's inkpot once again, as good as new, if still dripping a little from the ink. Kindly, Rose handed it back to the fourth year, who wiped it off on a sleeve and threw it, screaming, to his friend.

"You could have put a silencing charm on it, you know," said a new voice. Albus twisted guiltily to see Lexy standing behind him, her arms crossed.

"Sorry, Lex," Rose apologized absently, not sounding sorry at all. She tapped her wand against Albus's ruined essay, siphoning the ink off and only erasing one sentence.

"Sure you are. So what was the boom I just heard? Sounded like something exploding."

Albus noticed for the first time that James was regarding him. And to his absolute shock, he could read jealousy in his brother's eyes.

"Oh, just Al taking his frustrations out on an innocent ball," Evan remarked in a deliberately offhand voice, turning back to his homework. If he noticed the sudden tension that sprang up between the brothers, he didn't comment. "And Rose saving his neck. This could get to be a habit, you know."

"It already is," James informed him, somewhat snidely.

"Hey, Al? James?" Lexy dropped down into the armchair on Albus's other side from James and rested her chin on her palm. She looked, Albus realized for the first time, exhausted. "The First Task is in six days."

Albus, who not only owned a calendar, but checked it every morning, just nodded glumly. James, on the other hand, looked shocked. "It's that soon?"

"Er, James? You have noticed that the days are getting colder, haven't you?" Rose asked him, perfectly serious.

James scowled at her. "What of it?"

"That means it's November. When the days generally get colder."

"I know it's November, Rose." James rolled his eyes. "And we're close to the First Task, so that means some professor should be showing us the creature we're facing soon, right? Right?"

"If they follow tradition, I'm sure they well." Lexy leaned over to get a look at Albus's work, wrinkling her nose. "I remember that potion—that one smelled awful. Just foul. And you spelled 'parsnip' wrong."

"Why on earth would you be writing about parsnips, anyway?" Rose craned her neck to get a look at the essay, but Albus defiantly pulled it out of view of nosy cousins. "They're not even in any of the potions we'll use, ever."

"I was making a comparison," Albus said stiffly, rolling up his essay. "Professor Hopewell likes comparisons."

"Anyway." Lexy cleared her throat, and Evan glanced at her warily, knowing very well that the cousins could get into arguments that made his own three-children family seem mild-mannered and polite. "Practice session, tomorrow? I've wrangled Freddy in for an hour—we're going over the 'l' section of his favorite magical beasts dictionary, so that ought to be fun. Right after dinner all right with you lads? I'll be there to buffer the Freddy-ness."

Rose eyed her older cousin with something torn between admiration and suspicion. "Don't you ever need to study for your O.W.L.s?"

Lexy yawned. "You done with that essay, Al? James? We can get some dueling in—I mean, I'm not as good as Dim at it, but I can give both of you a run for your money, I'd say."

But before either of the Potters had a chance to answer, the portrait hole burst open with such violence that everybody in the room froze. Only Evan moved—he craned his neck to see over Lexy.

Three second years scrambled through the portrait hole, one tripping over the others and landing only feet from Albus. He stared, and James gaped. They were James's friends, the ones out laying traps for Professor Hopewell.

"Thought you were being funny, did you?"

Albus, Rose, and James all gasped—they recognized that voice. Professor Longbottom!

Sure enough, Neville Longbottom himself stormed into the common room, his face red and his eyes blazing. He didn't have his wand out, but the Potters both knew just how dangerous he could be without a wand. After all, he'd learned everything he knew alongside Harry Potter.

And right now, he was more furious than Albus had ever seen him.

"Thought you could play a prank on an unsuspecting and innocent person, just to win the respect of your mates, did you?" he thundered at the second years. The boys had obviously never seen their mild-mannered Herbology professor in full steam before. They cowered. "I would expect something like this from the Slytherins!" Professor Longbottom spat at them. "But Gryffindors? You should be ashamed the hat even considered putting you in this house, let alone actually did!"

The three second years had the grace to hang their heads.

Lexy leaned toward Albus and James. "Little mad for just a prank, isn't he?"

As if he could hear them all the way across the room, Neville's furious gaze cut to their group. Rose and Albus flinched away.

But Neville wasn't interested in them. He turned back on the second years. "Detention!" he thundered at them, and all three gaped. "This Saturday! With Filch!"

Every single student in the room winced.

"And, just so your classmates don't find you to be heroes for daring to stand up and prank a professor, fifty points from Gryffindor."

One of the second years opened his mouth to protest, but Professor Longbottom held up a hand. "And if any one of you protests, it'll be fifty _each_," he promised. "Now. Any protests?"

Mutely, the second years shook their heads.

"I thought so." With one final cutting look over the room, Professor Longbottom whirled and stormed away, slamming the portrait hole hard enough that the fire flinched in response. For one breath's span, silence reined—and then shattered as everybody began talking at once. Albus spotted quite a few of the older students, especially those on the Quidditch team, scowling at the second years. The younger students were gazing at the second years, wide-eyed. Undoubtedly, they'd never seen anybody lose fifty points before.

Albus didn't really think it was the time to mention that his dad and Professor Longbottom had both lost fifty points—each. In their first year.

James's friends, tails between their legs, dragged themselves over to the group's table and collapsed into the remaining chairs. "Brutal," one of them decided. "Savagely brutal."

"Savage is right."

Lexy fixed them with her best Molly Weasley stare, one that was so highly effective that Albus found himself exchanging nervous glances with Rose. Two of James's friends looked away from her, but the third raised his chin, defiant now that there wasn't a professor in sight. "We weren't doing anything to hurt her," he defended himself. "Just, er, maybe change her robes around a bit. She always wears such thick ones, nobody can tell if she's a ha—"

One of his pals, sensing trouble in the cold-eyed Weasley stare, stomped on his friend's foot. James, on the other hand, looked highly affronted. "You told me it was dungbombs!" he snapped, rising and nearly knocking Albus's essay into the inkpot.

"Relax, Potter, it was just a bit of fun—"

"Just a bit of fun?" James echoed, disbelieving. "You got _Neville _mad!"

"So?"

"So it's more than just a bit of fun if Neville's mad! You're all wankers!" James shot his friends an aggrieved and betrayed look, and stomped off, his ears burning bright red.

His friends watched him go with very different expressions. Two looked sheepish and ashamed, the third just as defiant as ever. "He's the wanker," he said conversationally to the table, and found two wands pointed at him. "We were just funning a bit—"

Rose, whose wand was nearer, growled, "Take that back!"

"Might want to do it, Roland," one of the other second years muttered, staring at Lexy's wand. The part-Veela looked furious enough to start spitting fire. "You know how the Potter-Weasleys are—"

The first boy, Roland, just jumped to his feet, glared at the entire table, and left. Once he was gone, Lexy sheathed her wand, gesturing that Rose should do the same. "Well?" she asked the other two. "What're you two still doing here? I'd find someplace to hide if I were you, until the shock of losing fifty points is gone. Gryffindors don't take lightly to losing large sums of points."

The other two, looking more sheepish than ever, quickly made their own exits, following James and not Roland.

Lexy just shook her head and leaned back. "Quick on the draw," she complimented, looking over at Rose. Evan, seated beside Rose with his essay still open in his lap, just gaped a little. Lexy smiled at him. "We're a very protective family. Comes with there being so many of us."

"And so many redheads," Rose finished. By mutual agreement, the three first years turned back to their tasks. Eventually, Lexy took herself off to her room. No more was said about the First Task, James, the exploding ball, or Roland the Idiot.

**A/N the Second: Thus endeth the chapter.**


	5. The First Task

**A/N: Going to try and post at least a chapter a week, so that people aren't waiting six months in between chapter postages. Anyway, major props go to SilentWasteland, who helped me plot out the creature attack, to Kat for being interested enough to get me to go on, and you probably should thank my mom for nagging me into writing. :-P**

**Disclaimer: Still nothing interesting here. Keep walking, soldier. (and I don't own any of it, and am not making any profits)**

**Chapter Five: The First Task**

Days flew by too fast to be treasured or even remembered very clearly. Lexy ensured this, Albus thought somewhat uncharitably, by orchestrating it that Freddy work with the young Potters on magical creatures every night, instead of just two or three times a week. And, of course, there was dueling to see to—nobody hit the ceiling anymore, thankfully, as Albus took care to watch how loudly he shouted his spells—and general charms-work. On top of the regular coursework, and his newfound duties as champion. He endured the wand-weighing ceremony and the press pictures only because he had to. _The Daily Prophet_, a much nicer paper now that his Aunt Penny had taken over it, had sent a reporter, who had naturally wanted a shot of just James and Albus. Professor McGonagall had interceded on the Potters' behalf.

Some nights he worried that the challenge looming over his head wouldn't let him rest, but he usually fell asleep before the thought had even finished itself.

He woke the day of the First Task with something furry and nauseating scrabbling in his midsection. Because it was too early even to wake Evan, and too late to try falling asleep again, he slipped from his bed and padded down to the common room. Since the sun had yet to rise, he figured he'd have it to himself.

He was, he saw the instant he hit the bottom step, wrong. Somebody was already in the common room, and from the look of it, she had been there for hours, so many books spread around her that Albus gaped. He nearly bounced forward to announce his surprise, but voices from beside the fireplace drew his notice. And instead, he stepped into the shadows to watch.

Victoire knelt in front of the fireplace, keeping her voice low as she conversed with somebody Albus couldn't see. A few feet away, books and miles of parchment spread around her, sat Lexy, frowning down at an open textbook. Albus, who had never seen his cousin ever crack the spine of a book, not even once, gaped.

As he goggled, the head in the fireplace laughed, and Lexy lifted her head to glare past her sister. "It's not like," she said with enough heat that Albus, across the room, heard her perfectly, "I drag these 'unsuspecting victims' into broom closets, you know. They come willingly."

"Lexy," Victoire sighed, sounding very tired.

But the head in the fireplace laughed again, and Albus nearly jolted to realize that it was Teddy Lupin. Curious, he strained his ears.

"…Sure you don't," he heard Teddy say. "But maybe you should be careful who you…bring into these closets, maybe?"

Lexy's eyes narrowed. "Why? What've you heard, big ears?"

Albus heard his cousins laugh, and wondered if Teddy had grown his ears like an elephant's.

"Nothing," Teddy said. "Much."

But now Victoire joined her sister in staring at her boyfriend. "What've you heard?" she asked in a steely voice that reminded Albus of Gran Molly.

"Slytherins, Lexy?" Teddy demanded, sounding tired himself. "Really?"

Lexy's face looked a bit thunderous. "It was just the one," she informed him. "Llewellyn's not a bad bloke."

Albus gasped. Lexy had been in a closet with Peter Llewellyn? All of the first years were afraid of him, even the Slytherins like Scorpius Malfoy. They couldn't help it—he was great and hulking, almost as tall as Sullivan. And he never smiled.

"He's not, but…" Teddy trailed off. He cleared his throat. "Methinks you have a visitor."

Both Lexy and Victoire whirled toward the staircase, wands out. The thought of running away occurred briefly to Albus, but he knew his cousins. He'd never escape in time. So, with a defeated slope to his shoulders, he edged around the corner, smiling sheepishly.

"Oh," Victoire said, dropping her wand back onto the couch. "It's just you. What're you doing up so early, Al?"

Albus shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Hey, Teddy."

"Albus. My favorite red-headed Potter—save your mother, of course." Teddy added the last bit hastily, grinning. "What's going on?"

"Where're you floo-calling from?" Albus asked, creeping closer to get a look at Teddy's head in the fireplace. His hair was green today, a wild, virulent shade that made Albus jealous. And he hadn't changed his face around—much—since the last time Albus had seen him. It gave him a sense of comfort.

Teddy's face seemed to wince. "Afraid I can't tell you that, buddy. Top secret, wot-like."

Albus nodded sagely. He remembered, long before his father had become top Auror, Harry Potter calling and being unable to tell his family where he was.

"Don't worry, Al," Lexy piped up from behind him. "He won't tell us, either." She muttered something under her breath. Albus thought he caught something about the inquisition and closets, but he didn't pay too close attention.

"So, Al. Holding up all right, there? Nervous?"

Albus shrugged

"I'll be there, you know," Teddy continued, smiling over Albus's shoulder at Victoire. "I'm flooing in at ten, soon as we finish things up here in—" He broke off with a sheepish look. "Where I am, that is. Vic tells me you've been working with Freddy, boning up on your magical creatures. You know what do when faced with a Yeti, right?"

"Pray?" Albus offered.

Teddy let out a roaring laugh, similar to Albus's father's. "That's exactly right. And you could try a stunning spell, too, aimed right for his eye. That'll distract him."

"It'll do something, that's right," Victoire said dryly. She glanced toward the windows, where the sun peeked over the horizon, hesitantly announcing itself to the world. "Hmm, the other students will be waking soon. Albus, why don't you go over and sit by Lexy? She's got a new spell for you."

"She does?" Albus asked.

"I do?" Lexy echoed. She must have seen something in her sister's face that Albus didn't, for she cleared her throat. "Oh, right. Er, yes. C'mon over here, Al, got a new spell for you—it's around here somewhere, I'm sure—" She began to rummage through the parchment, waving absently for Albus to take a seat—facing away from the fire. When he sat, she grinned and muttered, "Let's give them their privacy, eh?"

"Oh," Albus realized, and Lexy's grin broadened. She finally located a suitable piece of parchment, for she thrust this at him. "What's this?"

"My essay on Summoning, from last year. Still a bit advanced for you, but it can't hurt to know the theory behind the spell that helped your dad face a dragon, right?"

Albus focused very hard on Lexy's looping handwriting, trying very hard not to wonder what was happening behind him at the fireplace. He didn't have long to wonder—seconds after he'd picked up the essay, there was a rustling from the fireplace, a roar of flame, and Victoire seated herself on the arm of Albus's chair, ruffling his hair like she'd always done. "Couldn't sleep, huh?"

"No." Albus looked up from the essay and blinked owlishly at his eldest cousin. "Does Teddy call every morning?"

"This was a special occasion. He was wishing me luck in case he couldn't make it later."

Albus shrugged again and turned his attention back to Lexy, who was frowning down at the text in front of her even as her left hand—she was the only left-handed one of their generation—hurried over the parchment, writing down notes. "You read?" he asked her.

She looked up, frowning, as Victoire laughed. "What kind of question is that?"

"I've never seen you with a book," Albus told her. He thought about it, and added, "Ever."

Lexy looked a bit disgruntled. "I read," she said, somewhat stuffily.

"But only when others don't catch her at it," her sister filled in. She leaned forward to get a look at Lexy's work, and let out a low whistle. "When's this essay due, again? We don't have classes today."

"Next week," Lexy informed her irritably. "I don't procrastinate. I just couldn't sleep, like our Al here, so I decided to come down here and get a jump-start on some homework so that I can rub it in Dim's face later. And Vicky, if you're going to stick your head so far into the fireplace as you were doing when I came down, next time maybe you should just floo over and save Teddy the neck cramp, eh?"

It was more out of habit than any real anger that Victoire smacked her sister's shoulder.

* * *

When Albus joined the rest of his year-mates at breakfast, there was a definite tension in the air. Though they'd long given up on the idea of adopting Albus as their champion—he was always busy and never around to do the sort of things a champion should—the first years still looked forward to rooting on one of their own at the First Task. Though time had stolen some of their levity. A few eyed Albus solemnly, others gave him silent, encouraging nods. It was, however, the money changing hands that bolstered him the most.

Hogwarts students would bet on paint drying, if only to have a wager.

Geraldine Biggs was busily pawing through the December issue of _Divination Now! _even though it was only November. Across from her, her best friend Winnie Cates stared into her bangers and mash, never a morning person. Beside her, Dexter Colvin looked equally tired, and just as ready to put his face down into a plate of hash browns and sleep. Tony Paglio looked up to nod at Albus and Evan as they came in. "I hear it's dragons."

As Tony had come to breakfast with a new mythical creature supposition every day for a week, Albus just muttered, "'Lo, Tony. Pass the eggs, will you?"

But Evan looked intrigued. "How d'you know it's dragons? You hear them during the night or something?"

Tony had the grace to flush. "No, but it has to be, right? The last time the tournament came to Hogwarts, my da said it was dragons."

Rose, who'd come separately to breakfast—probably by way of the library—took the seat next to Evan. "I don't think it's dragons," she told him absently. "After all, they've done that already. And yesterday you were telling us it was going to be a wendigo. Which doesn't even exist in England _or _Scotland."

"How d'you know that?"

"Looked it up." Rose eyed Evan, who had managed to stuff an entire piece of toast and two links of sausage in his mouth, and merely shook her head. "Where did you even hear about wendigos, Tony?"

Tony shrugged. "My aunt. Her ex-husband was an American."

"Ah." All conversation of mythical creatures was dropped, and Albus couldn't help but be grateful. He put food in his mouth for the sake of avoiding a scolding from Rose, but abject fear made for a bitter spice. Still, he forced himself to swallow.

"How're you holding up, mate?" Evan asked in a low voice.

Albus just looked over at him. "You can have my broom."

"What?"

"When I die. You can have my broom."

Evan threw his head back and laughed. "That's generous, but I don't want to wait ninety years for a broom. I appreciate the offer."

Albus smiled.

"Psst—Al." Rose leaned forward to nudge him. "Professor McGongall's signaling you—I think you're due down at the Quidditch pitch." She didn't have to finish the thought: where the First Task was taking place.

And where Albus was likely to meet his doom.

He stood and trudged after James and Victoire, his feet leaden. Similarly, he heard Mikhail leave the Slytherins, and spotted Giselle giving her brother a wave and a smirk as she joined them. Silently, the odd group of five made their way from the Great Hall and out into the cold November day. Albus shivered, wishing he'd worn his scarf. Though he doubted he'd need it—a scarf was just one more thing to feed whatever it was that was going to eat him.

James trudged beside him. "D'you know what it is?"

Albus shook his head mutely.

"I hope it's not dragons." James looked a bit sickly at the thought.

A giant awning tent stretched over the entire Quidditch pitch, striped with stark red and white. Big enough, Albus saw, to fit the entire school and all guests beneath. All of them would get to see his masticated body later.

Yuck.

To distract himself from, well, himself, he started reciting all of the different defensive charms Dim had drilled into him. He nearly smiled when he realized that next to him, James was doing exactly the same thing. They were both still muttering when all five of the Champions were led into a smaller tent off the main one. Inside, Albus's stomach lurched to see Madam Pomfrey checking through a group of potions next to five cots that had been taken from the infirmary. The judges waited for them in the tent, pacing. Albus nearly took a step back to see his Uncle Percy among them.

"Uncle Percy?" Victoire asked for the three of them. "You're a judge?"

"Of course not. Wouldn't be fair." Percy gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, then shook Albus and James's hands. "I'm just here representing the Ministry, along with Boston here."

A man in a pin-striped cloak grunted.

"I came in to wish you luck," Percy continued, resting a hand on Albus's shoulder, since the redhead was nearest him. "Penny sends her love, as do Ignatius and the rest. They all wanted desperately to be here, but the rules are quite specific, no families allowed until the Third Task. They wouldn't even let your father come with the contingency of Aurors, boys. But as soon as the task is completed, I'm under strict orders to Floo right over and fill them in." He grinned crookedly so that he reminded Albus, just briefly, of the other uncles.

James and Albus exchanged a swift glance. "How's Mum?" James asked for both of them.

Percy bought time by straightening his bowler, grimacing a bit. "I…wouldn't care to be whatever creature you're facing today, if anything happens to either of you. Let's just put it that way."

"Hopping mad," James surmised, and grinned over at Albus. "That'd be a sight, wouldn't it? Who d'you think would win? Mum or a dragon?"

Albus stared at James as though he'd gone insane.

"Right," James said, catching on. "Mum, then."

From where she stood with the other champions, Victoire snorted. "You had to ask?"

"Champions!" Headmaster Quinlan strode in, full of fuss and bother as he always seemed to be, and swept his gray eyes over the five students assembled. Albus, standing between James and Mikhail, felt absurdly short, even though he was nearly of a height with the headmaster. "I'm glad to see you've all shown up for the First Task—half the battle is, after all, showing up, eh?"

If this was a pep talk, Albus decided it was probably a good thing Quinlan had become a headmaster, and not somebody who gave pep talks every day.

"So we'll be starting as soon as the crowds get here," Quinlan went on, ignoring the fact that two out of his five champions were now sickly shades of green. "And to be fair to all of you, we'll be drawing the order from Mr. Boston's hat, here."

Uncle Percy's ministry partner stepped forward, yanking his hat from his head and revealing a patch of wispy gray round a huge bald pate. As Albus watched, Headmaster Krum held up five tiles, each bearing a number. He dropped them into the hat and made a show of wiping his hands off.

"All right. You have only your wand and your wits to help you on this task. Mr. Korvachev, since your name came out of the Goblet first, you'll pick first. Go on, then. Pick a tile."

Looking a bit green himself, Mikhail stepped forward and put it a hand into Mr. Boston's hat. He drew his hand back quickly.

"Three," he said, his brows low over his eyes.

Giselle went next, pulling a four.

When it was Victoire's turn, she stepped forward, all signs of nerves vanished. She looked like she did before a Quidditch game, Albus thought, remembering the times his father had brought him to see Victoire and Freddy play. He always remembered feeling a little sorry for the other team, faced with that iron determination.

She drew a two.

Albus exchanged a glance with James. One of them would be going first, the other last.

James stepped forward when it was his turn and put his hand in the bag. He yanked it out quickly. And stared, in horror, at the one in his fist.

Something in Albus's stomach dissolved. He would be facing the creature last.

"Now you, lad," Boston urged, nodding at Albus. He jerked forward on feet that weren't his, stuck his hand in the bag, and pulled out the number five. He felt somebody's hand on his shoulder—Uncle Percy's—before he stepped back.

"Very well, then." Quinlan looked over all the champions, his eyes a-glitter with merriment that made Albus feel a bit nauseated. "Mr. Potter—er, Mr. James Potter. You'd be up first, come right this way."

"Professor." Victoire stepped forward before they could lead Albus's brother away. "You never said—what is it we'll be fighting today?"

"Oh, dear me." Quinlan looked over the faces of his five champions, those ranging from abject fear to pure determination. "I never said? But of course, of course. You'll be fighting manticores today."

"Big ones," put in Boston, rather unhelpfully.

Albus wondered if it was too late to run away.

* * *

Every hiss and boo from the crowd seemed to seize Albus's stomach, fill it with acid, and hurtle it into his throat. He sat on one of the hospital cots, his legs folded beneath him, and listened. Beside him, Victoire was absolutely still. She would, after all, be facing the manticore next. So she was probably conserving energy, and maybe praying a little, too.

When the crowd cheered, Albus nearly surged to his feet, eager to see what James had done. But the crowd hissed again, rather quickly.

Albus hoped that James bested the manticore—and soon. He wasn't going to last much longer if this suspense kept up.

Across the tent, Mikhail was scowling down at his fingers, turning his hands over and over. Giselle didn't seem altogether bothered by the fact that she would soon be facing a creature everybody in the wizarding world feared. She was simply playing with a lock of that sunny blonde hair, twisting it about with the tip of her wand. Albus's Aunt Katie had a habit of doing the same, but she usually ended up turning her hair blue or green.

Giselle's hair remained blonde.

"How're you doing?" Victoire asked suddenly, breaking Albus out of his reverie.

Albus shrugged. "Had better days."

Victoire smiled. "Me too."

Albus opened his mouth to ask her how she was going to get past the angry scorpion tail of the manticore. The crowd cut him off, erupting in cheers so wild that both cousins leapt to their feet. Albus was halfway to the tent flap before it opened, admitting Professor Quinlan—and a slightly dazed James.

His eyes were glazed and he was so flushed that his freckles stood out like advertisements on his face. There was blood on his face, oozing sluggishly from a cut on his cheek. His clothes were mussed and torn, dirtied at the knees and elbows. But he grinned from ear to ear, clutching something small and rectangular to his stomach. He grinned at his cousin and his brother. "Hey, Al. Vicky, your turn."

Victoire rolled her eyes at the name, but she gripped James's shoulder, yanking her hand back when he winced. "Glad to see you survived."

"Barely." James rolled his own eyes, so full of bravado that Albus felt a spurt of jealousy. He wished, as he had almost all his life, that he had James's self-confidence. "Caught me once. But I was too fast for the bugger."

"Glad to hear it." Victoire's chin lifted; she turned to Professor Quinlan and gave him a node. Without another word, she left the brothers alone.

"How was it?" Albus asked in a low voice. Madam Pomfrey was coming their way, probably seeing how James had reacted to Victoire's hand on his shoulder. But his brother didn't look badly hurt, so that was something.

James shrugged. "That would be cheating."

"Aw, c'mon, James—"

"All right, young man, let's get that shoulder looked at." Madam Pomfrey, never a lady to take any guff from students, marched James away to the row of cots. The eldest Potter wiggled his eyebrows at his brother as he was dragged away.

Albus scowled To think he'd been worried that the git might've died. He dropped into one of the folding chairs randomly scattered around the tent, still scowling. Giselle and Mikhail ignored him; he returned the favor.

"Potter!"

Albus didn't bother to look up. One of his brother's friends had decided to sneak in to congratulate James. Well, Albus wasn't going to help any of James's idiotic friends out.

"Psst—Potter! _Albus_!"

Well, that was different. Not wanting to alert the other champions that he had company, Albus turned his head slightly and saw a hand beckoning him to the tent flap. When the hand moved urgently, Albus rose from his seat, faked a huge stretch, and ambled disinterestedly away from Giselle and Mikhail. He glanced around to make sure nobody was paying particular attention to him—Mr. Boston was debating something with some wizard Albus didn't recognize, Madam Pomfrey was poking a protesting James with her wand, and Mikhail and Giselle were each too busy staring at his or her hands to notice him.

So Albus slipped quietly from the tent to meet his visitor.

It wasn't, as he suspected it might, his cousins Freddy and Dimitri. It wasn't even Teddy Lupin, who'd been a vague possibility, though his visitor did have blue hair.

It was Aidan Sullivan, bane of Lexy Weasley's existence.

Albus squinted up at him. "What're you doing here?"

"Helping you out." Sullivan jerked his head a bit, indicating that Albus should follow him—away from the tent. With only one glance over his shoulder, Albus trailed after the sixth year. He remembered the odd moment on the front lawn, when Sullivan had nodded, almost deferring, to him.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"I'm not after seeing people die today." They didn't go far; Sullivan led him to a place just at the edge of the stands. Albus couldn't see anything through the wooden slats, and wasn't sure if he was grateful or not. "Your brother survived his bout, barely. Through mostly luck, I'd say."

"We tend to be a lucky breed," Albus told him, quoting a phrase his father liked to use.

"Or the unluckiest breed on the planet," Sullivan corrected, though he wasn't looking at Albus. "I'm going to tell you a spell that will help you out."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why're you helping me?" Albus challenged. "You don't get along with Lexy, and she's my cousin, so why are you helping me?"

"Oh." Sullivan scratched the end of his nose, looking oddly abashed for a minute. "This has nothing to do with Lexy, really. Well, actually—no, just best to say. Nothing to do with Lexy. I just think—well, you're so young, you know that? Me sister, she—she's just two years younger than you. And I wouldn't want her facing a manticore without help—or ever, really, if it comes to that."

Albus didn't bother to tell him that he didn't particularly like facing a manticore himself.

"And they're watching your family real close," Sullivan went on. "Making sure they don't come back and try to help you. So I thought I would." He grinned suddenly, charmingly. "Besides, they're a bunch of Gryffindors. What do they know?"

Albus gave a token "Hey!" at the house rivalry, but he was grinning.

Nobody noticed when Albus came back into the tent, muttering under his breath. In silence, three champions sat, staring at hands while outside, one of their own faced a creature worse than most of Albus's nightmares.

"All right, son." A shadow fell over Albus, blocking all light around the small boy. He squinted up at Mr. Boston, every thought vanished from his mind.

"What?"

"Your turn, son." Mr. Boston gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder and nodded once at the open tent flap, the one that led to the challenge arena. Where a manticore of Albus's very own no doubt sat, waiting very much like diners at a restaurant for their next meal.

Though Albus's knees had turned to gelatin, he rose from the folding chair and nodded grimly. He wasn't sure how he was going to hold his wand properly with his hands slicked down with sweat, but he figured he might manage. If he followed Sullivan's advice properly. With a resolve he didn't feel, he marched past the hospital cots, where Giselle was getting her scrapes mopped up and where Mikhail lay, still out cold, something clutched in his hands. James, his shoulder whole and hale, gave him a nod as he passed; Victoire reached out to pat his shoulder in support.

Albus just nodded back at both of them, and slipped from the tent.

Connecting the smaller tent to the arena tent was a long corridor of cloth, bright only when the late November sunlight slanted through patches. Every step was a monumental effort, only to be repeated with each footfall. Only sheer will kept his head up and his shoulders proud as he walked onward, facing what was probably certain death.

Professor Quinlan waited at the end of the corridor, humming a bit tunelessly to himself. When Albus joined him, trying to decide if he would rather upchuck or soil his trousers, the headmaster gave a bolstering smile. "How are you, lad?"

Terrified. Albus just gave the headmaster a blank look, and shrugged. He wasn't sure if words would actually come out of his mouth.

"Well." Quinlan looked as though he wasn't sure what words of comfort to offer, so he just nodded at the boy. "Just go out there and give it your best shot, eh?"

If he'd ever received less helpful advice in his life, Albus couldn't remember.

"You just need to get the, er, object on the other end," Quinlan went on, unaware that Albus was gaping at him with an expression one usually reserves for madmen. "That's all. Once you've secured it, the Aurors will help you out. But they can't help you out before—not without you losing all your points for this match."

Albus opened his mouth to tell the headmaster that he would rather the Aurors deal with the manticore and Albus keep his skin, points or no points. No sound came out.

"Good lad!" Quinlan finished, and all but shoved him into the arena.

Bright sunlight struck him first, before the one-two punch of the crowd's cheers hit home. Albus inadvertently took a step back, only to be met with an unresisting wall of bright blue cloth. That way, he understood grimly, was blocked. There was only forward, over the long Quidditch pitch.

Across the distance, he could see his goal—the other exit. It stood bright and clear, a beacon of hope.

One squashed by the creature pacing in front of it.

Albus had seen pictures and even photographs of manticores in the newspaper. His Aunt Penny, the Editor-in-Chief of the _Daily Prophet_, had an album of pictures in her office; while stuck there one day the year before, Albus had paged through. He hadn't given much thought to the creature then. He did so now.

In the picture, the lion's body had been tiny, smaller than Lily's pet cat Tomkins. Even across the entire Quidditch pitch, riddled as it was by trees, hedges, and large boulders, Albus could see this was no longer the case. The leonine body was simply _huge_. Large muscles coiled beneath matted tawny fur. Even from the distance, Albus could make out every pinprick of lethal claw on those paws. They'd be a bit blood-stained from the other champions, he knew.

He couldn't make out the manticore's face in the distance, but it was tilted his way, those eyes watching him. He froze.

The manticore didn't move.

_He won't move_, Albus realized, _until I do._

It was up to him to make the first step.

His heart clinging tightly to his throat, Albus did. The manticore didn't move. It remained standing in front of the gaping mouth of the exit, body languid. Above the head—oddly human, with a thatch of dark hair as unruly as Albus's own red mess—the scorpion's tail swayed slightly from side to side. It was oily black, armor-plated. A drop of sunlight gleamed off of its vicious point.

Albus took another step. The manticore yawned.

It was going to wait until he got within striking distance, he saw. His stomach sank to his toes.

Up in the stands, his classmates were screaming and hollering, made oddly bloodthirsty by the first four champions. Now that the youngest—and therefore weakest—of the champions was to face the creature, they could almost scent the blood on the air. And it made their cheers a bit wilder, though Albus heard supportive shouts throughout the mix.

He didn't dare lift his eyes from the manticore to search for the inevitable patch of redheads.

Fingers slippery around his wand, he took another step, and another, until he was almost walking, striding across the Quidditch pitch toward doom. If he hadn't been able to count every painful heartbeat, he would have sworn his heart had stopped from abject terror.

"Be quick," Sullivan had warned.

At the half-pitch line, Albus slowed. The manticore was tensing further with every step. It would strike soon, that scorpion tail flashing before Albus even had a hope of getting a shield spell off. At least they'd finally proven that manticore venom wasn't instantly deadly, like the textbooks claimed. Though the stinger on a full-grown beast could punch a Quaffle-sized hole if it hit right. His spells wouldn't work against manticore flesh—Freddy had made that very clear—so his only hope was to outsmart the creature rather than out-power it.

Easier said than done.

A tree, not yet full grown but still big enough for an eleven-year-old to hide behind, grew just under the penalty line for the home team. Albus made it that far before he heard the first growl.

_Last chance, Potter_, he told himself. And took a deep breath.

"Be quick." Sullivan's voice, in his head.

He was too far for the manticore to reach him within a single spring, too close to what the manticore considered his own territory not to be a menace. Here was as good a place as any. He heard mutters in the crowd, whispers of "What's he doing?" and "Why's he just standing there? Doesn't he know he's supposed to _fight_ the manticore?"

Albus was tempted to squeeze his eyes closed. Within twenty seconds, it would all be over.

His wand arm went up; the manticore's gaze snapped to the tip of the wand, waiting for an excuse, any excuse to attack.

On the count of three, Albus summoned all of his will and shouted, "_Caeco Corscus!_"

Light blasted from his wand and rocketed straight into the manticore's ugly human face, exploding into a tiny supernova instants before it hit. The manticore yelped, then roared, furious.

Albus, on the other hand, reeled back. He hadn't expected the spell to work, and therefore hadn't looked away, either. The world became fuzzy gray upon fuzzier white, with blurs around him for trees and boulders. Startled, he tripped more than jumped backwards—and just in time.

Blind and now outraged, the manticore leaped for him—or where he'd been. But Albus had ducked back behind the tree on the penalty line. He felt the bark shudder as the manticore slammed into the bole face-first. Instinct had him scrambling away. He heard the thud of the manticore's stinger as it slammed into the frozen earth, inches from the space he'd just vacated.

Panting with fear and adrenaline, he sprinted for the passageway. The manticore let out another unearthly roar, something half-human, half-lion, and fully chilling. It pounded after him, listening to his footsteps. Albus threw himself to the side and this time felt the air as the stinger swooshed by him, barely missing.

Before he knew quite what he was doing, he rolled out of the way, surged to his knees, and muttered, "_Caeco Corscus!_" again.

Light burst against a rock to the manticore's right, away from Albus. The spell wasn't as strong as the first, but it succeeded. Still unable to see anything, the manticore pounced. It roared in fury and frustration yet again.

By this time, Albus was already halfway to the exit. He could see it, a darker blur against the gray. But it was still so far away, and he could hear the manticore behind him, those dinner plate-sized paws scrabbling for purchase on the grass.

_I'm going to die._

"Be quick!" Sullivan's voice pushed his legs faster somehow. Albus didn't know how, and didn't particularly care. He wanted only to reach that exit—to be free of this nightmare—

Somebody in the crowd shouted his name, his only warning.

Albus whirled, wand up. The manticore leaped. Albus shouted the first spell that came to mind.

"_Aquas!_"

Water shot out of Albus's wand with such force that it knocked the manticore's stubbled chin back. The scorpion tail ruffled Albus's hair as it missed.

Albus, meanwhile, wasn't going to see if manticore, like the rest of the cat population, hated water. He twisted on the spot and sprinted. The manticore's scream shook the ground, drawing gasps and shouts from the crowd. Albus didn't hear them, as busy as he was running for his life. He was fast enough to keep up with James, something he prided himself on, but he figured a manticore had to be faster.

He was right.

Just as he reached the glorious exit, he heard the heavy paws thud against the ground. There was something, he realized, hanging in midair, just before him. Before he'd registered what it was, his fingers closed around it. He heard shouts from the crowd—the manticore's victory scream, so loud—the manticore was airborne, flying at him like some sort of demented Quidditch player—a sudden glimpse of green Auror robes, too far away—

Albus raised his arms to protect his face, the unknown object clutched in them. And prepared to meet his fate.

It was a probably a good thing he didn't feel the manticore's stinger as it hit him, all things considered.

**A/N the Second: Yes, I'm evil. You may now let me know how much. :)**


	6. The Hospital Wing

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating--between working crazy hours (it's the summer season, which means "high season" in my line of work, which means sleep is a very distant memory) and my wonderful weekend trip to Lake Tahoe, I've just been swamped. Either way, I've practically obliterated my buffer. Whoops. I should work on that. Thanks to everybody who reviewed the last chapter. Sorry this one is shorter than usual.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, homes. Especially not Madam Pomfrey. Who's fun to write.**

**Chapter Six: The Hospital Wing**

Everything in Albus's head felt a bit fuzzy, as though somebody had taken the cotton balls his mother used for her make-up removing potions, and had delicately wrapped them around every thought he had ever had. He didn't mind the feeling; it actually felt a bit nice. But it did make it very hard to think. And though he wasn't nearly so smart as his cousin Rose, Albus had to admit that he was indeed fond of thinking. So he tried to shake the cotton off.

When that didn't work, he tried opening his eyes. Maybe he'd slept through the alarm spell again, and a bit of sunlight would help him wake up quicker.

The sight that met him wasn't the stars his father had magicked onto his ceiling before his fourth birthday, or the underside of his canopy in the Gryffindor dormitory. Albus blinked at the plain white ceiling. It didn't look like any of his uncle's houses, either. So where could he be? Carefully, very carefully, he turned his head—and stared.

This was the Hospital Wing, he realized. He remembered taking Evan there with his cousins after he'd sent his friend zooming to the ceiling.

The way Ginny Potter had told it, her husband had spent most of his days at Hogwarts in and out of the Hospital Wing. Albus knew he looked like a red-headed image of his dad—except skinnier and shorter—but he'd hoped to avoid his dad's fate. After all, he hated the taste of healing potions, especially Pepper-Up Potion, which his mum made him take every time she heard so much as a sniffle.

Curious now, Albus turned to look the other way, his eyes sweeping over a table full of cards and candies. He saw a few hand-lettered posters among the lot, all of which congratulated him. One even bore a gruesome picture of a manticore so lifelike that Albus had to look away. A flash of that scorpion tail arcing toward him made him close his eyes briefly.

"Ah. Mr. Potter. You're awake."

Albus opened his eyes and peered up at Madam Pomfrey in her starched nurse's robes. "Er…" His throat felt rusty and neglected. He cleared it. "Where am I?" he asked, though he already knew.

"The Hospital Wing," she replied. "You suffered quite a blow when that manticore got you—thankfully you were quick enough to block most of it—"

How? Albus wanted to ask. He didn't remember getting a shield spell off before the tail had hit him.

"Otherwise you'd have been asleep for a lot longer, I think," Madam Pomfrey finished. She leaned down and levered an arm beneath him, helping him sit up.

"How long was I asleep?" Albus asked, trying to scoot up the pillows. His stomach rumbled, letting him know that he was starving, but he ignored it. "Have they had the feast yet? And who brought all of this?" His arm went out, indicating the table of sweets.

"You've had several friends and admirers through here," Madam Pomfrey informed him briskly. "In the past week."

Albus goggled. "I've been asleep a week?"

"Closer to two, I'd say. It's December now. You took quite a nasty fall. I suppose you can be considered the luckiest first year in history." Madam Pomfrey set about to prodding his face with her wand. Well-used to check-ups at St. Mungo's, Albus just let her continue on. "Any pain?"

"My shoulder hurts, some."

"I'll get you a potion for that. Don't understand what the headmasters are thinking, allowing such nonsense to continue on during the peacetime. Doesn't make sense for them—three of the most powerful witches and wizards out there—to be at the beck and call of a flaming goblet."

Albus had been under the impression that the goblet couldn't be ignored. When he voiced this opinion, Madam Pomfrey actually snorted.

"They could have ignored it, like as not." Madam Pomfrey now tugged the blanket securely about Albus, trapping him far better than any leather strap could. He received the unspoken message quite clearly. "Either way, I'll say no more. What's done is done, and you've managed to survive the deadliest task of the three. No doubt your head's just as hard as your mother's."

"My mother?" Albus blinked; normally when people mentioned his hard-headedness, they referenced his father. Usually because Harry Potter had faced one of the Darkest Lords ever several times, all before his eighteenth birthday.

A rare smile graced Madam Pomfrey's face, contorting the wrinkles oddly. Albus wondered how often she really did smile.

"Ah, yes. Your mother." The smile widened into a chuckle. "In her seventh year, she, well, she misjudged a pass from a teammate, slipped, and went headfirst into one of the goalposts. Silly girl fell straight onto the pitch and wouldn't let me fix it—she just hopped right back up on her broom and kept flying. Only came to me after the game because her eyes were too crossed to finish her Potions essay. How she managed to make a single goal after that foul-up, I'll never know."

It always disquieted Albus somewhat to hear about his mother playing Quidditch, though she never skipped a family game. She'd played professionally before she'd had James. He knew it, logically. He'd grown up with the pictures and posters of the Holyhead Harpies, with his mum, forever young, grinning and waving at him from the Chaser's spot. Still, thinking of his parents, especially his mum, having a life before him seemed…perturbing.

"Of course," Madam Pomfrey went on, no doubt trapped in the throes of memory lane herself, "your father was no slouch with the Quidditch injuries. Don't think I saw any of the Gryffindors more often than I saw him. He practically had his own cot."

"I resent that a bit," said a new voice from the doorway, "as I seem to recall one of the cots having my name on it."

"Dad!"

Harry Potter, dressed in the green Auror robes that told Albus he'd just come from the Ministry, smiled at his son. "Don't get up," he cautioned, for Albus had been about to do just that. He grinned over at Madam Pomfrey. "She's better than any guard dog at keeping students in their beds. I'm trying not get in trouble."

"Hello, Mr. Potter." Madam Pomfrey smiled again, this one not as real as the smile she'd given Albus.

"Place hasn't changed a bit," Albus's dad remarked, looking around much as Albus had done upon waking.

"And why should it?"

Harry Potter opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it and fell back on an innocent smile.

"Fifteen minutes," Madam Pomfrey informed him sternly, and Albus goggled to see his father, champion of the wizarding world, duck his head like a schoolboy. When Madam Pomfrey turned that stern gaze on him, however, he swallowed with consternation and did the same. "Then my patient is to rest." With a sweeping look at both of them, she left father and son alone.

Harry just shook his head and crossed over to sit beside Albus's bed. "Hey, buddy."

"Dad!" This time, Albus did struggle away from the sheets, burrowing into his dad's side. "What're you doing here? I thought they didn't call parents for hospital wing visits."

"Well, they didn't ever call mine, that's for sure." Harry eased Albus back to get a better look at him. "How do you feel, big guy?"

His shoulder ached and his head felt a bit fuzzy, so Albus just shrugged with his good shoulder.

"Like you got into a fight with a manticore, eh?" Harry went on.

"You should see the other guy." It was something Uncle George had said once when he'd barged into Grimmauld Place in the middle of the night with a bloody nose. Ginny had shooed Albus and James, just four and five at the time, off to bed. But not before he'd seen Uncle George swearing and swaying about the kitchen like an absurd, red-headed clown. He'd found it funny, but Ginny Potter had been less than pleased.

Now, Harry threw his head back and laughed. "That's what James said when we came to see _him_. Merlin, you two…" He shook his head. "It just goes to figure. All I had to face in my first year was a three-headed dog. And—" He broke off.

Albus was tempted to beg his father to continue though he knew better. Harry Potter only got _that _look when Voldemort was mentioned. And he had made it clear time and again that that topic was off limits until they were older. Albus found it a bit unfair that he never specified how old.

"Did it really have three heads?" he asked instead, fascinated at the thought.

"Yes, which meant three sets of teeth. Big ones." Harry sighed, almost nostalgically. "Fluffy was…unique."

"Who on earth would name a three-headed dog Fluffy?" Albus wondered. Harry just leveled a grin at him until he understood. "Oh. Hagrid."

"There's a reason Mum and I check your Christmas presents from him before you open them." Still, Harry looked faintly amused. The half-giant had remained his friend all through Albus's childhood—Albus couldn't remember a single birthday without giving excuses to get around eating the birthday sweets Hagrid brought. After all, Hugo had cracked one of his baby teeth on them.

"Have you been to see Hagrid much?" Harry asked.

Albus went a bit red. "Not really," he confessed. He and Rose had taken Evan to visit Hagrid's hut a couple of times before the goblet had called his name, but since then, he'd been so busy that he'd only seen Hagrid at mealtimes.

Guilt made him clear his throat. "How's Mum? Is she better?"

Harry looked puzzled. "Better?"

Albus stared at his father as though he had grown a second head, or become very slow overnight. "Yeah—from tearing up the manticore that did this to me and James? I mean, I know she's Mum and all, but I figure the manticore probably still got a couple of licks in."

Now it was Harry's turn to stare. And burst out laughing so loud and hard that Madam Pomfrey ran in from her office, her wand at the ready. When she saw Harry Potter wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, she clucked and shook her head, stalking from the room. "I'll have to tell Mum you said that," Harry finally confessed, still laughing a little. "Let's just say she's decided to be magnanimous and let the manticore live. This time."

"Well, I won't be facing it again, that's for sure," Albus said stoutly, even as he made a mental note to ask Rose what magnanimous meant. "I swear, Dad, this tournament's been nothing but a pain in the neck. Honestly, what were they thinking? Manticores? Homework is hard enough!"

"There's that Potter sensibility," Harry said with some amusement. "At least you get a break before the next task. Do you have your clue? I imagine you probably haven't had time to figure it out yet—but I recommend you don't wait until the night before." He grimaced.

"Clue?" asked Albus, who had no earthly idea what his father was talking about.

"Certainly they gave you a clue." Harry's brow furrowed. "Like the egg I have at home?"

Albus vaguely remembered the large golden egg his father had unearthed in the attic one day from a box that had contained fascinating things, like broken sneakoscopes and a miniature dragon carving that had moved feebly, as though exhausted. Though Harry given that to James, always in love with dragons, neither boy had really been interested in a large golden egg. And Harry had never been much interested in showing them what it did.

"Yes," he said now. "I remember that egg. You said it wasn't a real dragon's egg."

"No, but I did get it out from beneath a dragon," Harry said, smirking. "A great big one. Probably bigger than your manticore."

Mischief lit up Albus's eyes at the thought of needling his father. "Your dragon might be bigger, but my manticore could take it in a fight. Uncle Charlie says dragons are clumsy on the ground."

"Well, until Uncle Charlie's fought both of them, we'll just have to assume my dragon was scarier than your manticore." Harry ruffled Albus's hair so that it fell forward across his eyes. The eleven-year-old shook his head, grinning. "Where's your clue, then?"

"I don't remember anyth—" With a jolt, Albus broke off mid-sentence, recalling that his hands had closed around right before the manticore had stabbed at him. And hadn't Madam Pomfrey mentioned a shield? "Wait, I think I grabbed something—it might be over here, actually." He twisted to rummage around the table full of sweets and gifts.

Harry waved him off. "I'll get it. Keep that arm still, will you?" He moved around the bed and nudged brightly colored wrappers to the side. "Ah, here we go."

From beneath a pile of chocolate frogs, he pulled out the clue—and nearly blanched white.

* * *

"What is it?" Rose asked, leaning in closer to get a better look, as Evan was blocking her view. When she saw what was in Albus's hands, she amended, "Or should I say, what _was _it?"

Lexy, seated on the other side of Albus's bed, leaned in closer as well. "Looks like a book, Cuz. Should be right up your alley. Or your mum's, at least. Looks a bit different than the one Victoire got, I'd say. Mostly because hers is blue." She thought about it. "And whole."

Several hours after his dad had left, Albus, well-rested from the nap Madam Pomfrey had insisted he take, sat surrounded by friends and family, who'd finally been granted a visit to see him. Only Victoire and Freddy were absent, as they had Quidditch practice. James, just a reserve Chaser, was excused to visit his brother, so he sat in between Evan and Dim.

"Mine's green," he offered. "I almost didn't see it, but my hand hit it as I was running by, so I just sort of grabbed it. Doesn't have anything written in it, and no title either. So it's not a great big help."

Albus's book had once been red, it looked like, from the inch or two of cover they could see. Not only was there a gaping hole through the heart of the book, large enough to see half of Albus's face through, and manticore venom had apparently eaten away at the rest of it, leaving a charred stump of melted parchment and cover. It looked almost like a work of art, in Albus's mind, though he was dismayed that he had destroyed something so useful. Even if it had saved his life.

"You can always use mine," James told him, seeming to read his thoughts. He'd been uncharacteristically nice to Albus for the entire visit. Albus figured their father had either said something to him. Or more likely, James's friends weren't around. He was much nicer when apart from them. "Though it's bloody useless, I think."

"Language," Rose told him.

James rolled his eyes at her.

"So what happened?" Albus demanded. "With the others? I didn't get to see anything until they brought me out. How'd everybody else get past the manticore?"

"Well." Dim glanced around, silently asking permission to take point. Taking Lexy's shrug for assent, he continued, "Victoire was the best, though the French girl—"  
"Giselle."

"Yes, her. She wasn't so bad. Mikhail, the Bulgarian guy, he wasn't too bad until he tripped and the manticore got him. And James was pure luck."

James went red.

"Victoire went for the same technique you did, Al," Dim went on. "She hit it in the face with sand and then just used a boulder to knock it out when it couldn't see her. Simple, effective. Giselle, did you say?" A few nods. "Giselle levitated herself until the manticore would have had to jump at her, then she cut the spell right as the manticore attacked. It swiped her a bit—missed, mostly, lucky her—and she ran for the book and got the bloody he—got out of there."

"And Mikhail?" Albus asked, fascinated. Victoire, Head Girl, Chaser, and witch that seemed able to do anything, had used the same idea he had? Granted, Sullivan had put the idea in his head originally, but Albus still felt a little warmth of pride.

"Mikhail, well, he had the coolest idea." Dim grinned broadly. "He didn't even walk toward the manticore the way the rest of you did, either. He just grabbed a handful of pebbles and transfigured them—birds, small dogs, cats, you name it. The manticore tried to go for all of them at once, and it got so frazzled that Mikhail just walked right by it."

"Except one of the cats tripped him," Rose pointed out.

"Should've been looking where he was walking," Dim agreed.

"Don't worry," Lexy told Albus, who looked a bit stricken. "The Aurors pulled him away before it could, you know, eat him or anything."

"I'm sure he's grateful," Dim added drolly. "Even if all he does is glower and stomp about and glare at the French girl." He paused. "She's a bit…"

"Dimitri," Lexy warned, and Dim shrugged, not recalcitrant in the least.

"So when are they springing you?" Evan wanted to know. Everybody looked at him blankly. "From the hospital wing?"

"Oh. Right." Albus shrugged his good shoulder. "Madam Pomfrey says she wants to keep me here one more night, give me one last potion. I have to go back to class on Monday." It was Friday, which meant he had an entire weekend to catch up on his homework—as Rose had put it—or laze about Gryffindor Tower—as everybody else had suggested. Though it was a bit disconcerting to realize he'd been unconscious for nearly two weeks, the chocolates and sweets his classmates had given him had allayed the impact a bit. And he was more than happy to share.

"How'd you think of the flashbang spell?" Dim asked out of nowhere.

"Is that what it's called? I wondered." Albus checked over his shoulder to make sure that Madam Pomfrey didn't overhear. He knew it was tradition to cheat for the first task, but he didn't think any of the faculty would appreciate that he had, when none of the other champions had been given the option. "Sullivan told me how."

"Sullivan?" Dim echoed as Lexy squawked, "_Aidan _Sullivan?" and James muttered, "You got help? No fair!"

"He'd have helped you, too," Albus told his brother. "But there wasn't time. And you got by the manticore, didn't you? See, you didn't need any help."

James looked a bit mollified at that.

"Why'd Sullivan want to help you?" Dim wondered. Next to him, his sister stayed absolutely still, eyeing Albus as though he were a particularly difficult Arithmancy equation. "He's a Ravenclaw." He made it sound as if Ravenclaw wasn't _quite _the enemy, but as Sullivan played on a Quidditch team opposite Freddy and Victoire, he was the next best thing.

Albus opened his mouth to tell them about what Sullivan had said, but thought better of it. Some of Sullivan's comments had been a bit personal, and the older boy might not like them repeated. "That's between him and me, I expect."

"Nice of him," Dim decided for the group. The subject was dropped in favor of passing Albus's new book around and remarking on its state, wondering if it would be usable as a clue. Rose and Lexy believed staunchly that it could probably still give Albus his proper clue, but the boys figured it might make a more useful door-stop.

* * *

When Albus returned to class on Monday, he noticed something odd. Everywhere he looked, the population of Hogwarts seemed to be polarized—girls traveled around in giggling packs, while boys stalked about, looking a bit put out whenever they glanced at the troops of girls. It was only happening with the older students, Albus decided, for his classmates went around in their normal group. Tony Paglio still pulled Geraldine Biggs's hair, and Winnie Cates and Dexter Colvin were still as inseparable as ever.

Albus watched this odd behavior take place for nearly a week before he turned to Rose at breakfast on Friday. "Something's up," he announced.

She immediately glanced up from her book—a proper novel this time, not a textbook. "What? Where?"

"With the older students," Albus went on, and explained what he'd noticed about girls and boys ignoring each other. More than once, the portrait hole to Gryffindor Tower had slammed open to admit one red-faced boy or another. Some were in high dudgeons, others were received by their friends with high-fives and back-slaps.

"Oh." Rose shrugged. "That'll be because of the Yule Ball, I expect."

"The what?"

"You were unconscious when they announced it." Evan, across the table, swallowed a huge mouthful of scrambled egg. "There's going to be some fancy ball taking place on Christmas. Because of the tournament and whatnot."

Albus remembered, with a start, his mother and Professor Longbottom mentioning his father's trouble with the Yule Ball. His stomach sank.

Rose didn't seem to notice. "It's just for fourth years and above," she went on. "So that's why it's just the older students acting weird. Have you heard? Peter Llewellyn's asked Lexy to the Ball."

Instinctively, Albus shot a furtive glance at the Slytherin table, where the great hulking Llewellyn sat, focusing on the giant slab of ham on his plate. He was one of the biggest people Albus had ever seen, apart from Rubeus Hagrid. So it wasn't a surprise that half of the first years were terrified of him. "Lexy and _him_?" he asked, incredulously.

"She told me they're just friends," Rose informed him. "She turned him down."

Llewellyn, Albus decided, didn't look at all put out by that.

Albus turned about to face the Gryffindor table again. "So who's she going with?"

"Dunno." Rose had turned back to her book.

"Fourth years and above?" Albus asked Evan. "They really said that?"

Evan shrugged, his mouth too full to answer.

"Well, good." With his appetite returned out of full appreciation that he no longer had to attend this Ball that had given his father so many problems once upon a time, Albus dug into his own eggs. The owl post arrived in a flurry of feathers and letters, and Albus was so happy to see the family owl bearing missives from his parents that he didn't give the Ball another thought.

**A/N: Poor Albus. He doesn't even see it coming, does he?**


	7. Bad News

**A/N: To all of those who correctly thought Albus wasn't getting out of the Yule Ball, you ought to be amused by this chapter. Sorry it took so long. I'm going to try and have the next chapter up within a week or two, but as I'm going to be moving (I don't know where yet! Eek!), chapters may stagnate for a bit…more…for a little while.**

**Disclaimer: My kingdom for an interesting disclaimer! Well, maybe not my kingdom, but at least a kudos and a mad props. Also: it's not mine. Please don't sue. Still penniless.**

**Chapter Seven: Bad News**

Much later, after classes had commenced for the day, freeing students to meander out into the cold December day for snowball fights, or to roister around fires in common rooms, Albus found his way to the library and collapsed gratefully into his usual chair. Rose, being her mother's daughter, had claimed their group a table in the first week of school. Being her father's daughter as well, she'd picked a table out of Madam Pince's line of sight, one that still had old, beaten cushions on the chairs that were actually surprisingly comfortable. And she'd pointed to the table, where thousands of students over hundreds of years had left their mark. Right above the floor, in small letters, was Uncle Ron's name, scratched in with the tip of his wand on the farthest table leg from the door. Harry Potter's name was scribed next to it, squished in, but Aunt Hermione's name was unsurprisingly absent. Of course she wouldn't defile something in the library.

Rose and Evan had gone down to watch the Gryffindor Quidditch team practice. Normally, Albus might have joined them, but he wanted a few moments alone to think. And to try and solve the puzzle of the Second Task himself.

He flipped back to the lid to his satchel and pulled out the clue. Manticore venom had eaten away most of the cover, so Rose had conjured thick purple bands to strap the pages together. At one point in his life, this pathetic mass of wilted parchment had been a book.

An enchanted book? Curiously, Albus poked it with his wand. The book did not, as he had hoped, get up and tap-dance or start singing, or even talk to him. It merely sat there. Though it looked innocuous, Albus remembered clearly that his mum had forever distrusted most magical books. She had sat him and James down and warned him against enchanted items. 'Don't write in books that right back,' she'd warned them. 'If you can't see its brain, don't trust it.'

Even though he hadn't experienced a lot in his eleven years, Albus couldn't help but agree with that assessment. After all, he had yet to see the Goblet of Fire's brain, and it was clearly trying to kill him.

Maybe he had to do something specific to get the book to respond. Albus frowned. What did he do to get people to respond? If it was Lily, he'd pull her hair. With Rose, he'd just poke her or clear her throat. And with James, he'd likely hit him on the shoulder and take off running. That usually got James's attention—at least long enough for a wrestling match. With Mum and Dad, he just had to be louder than the others.

So I have to provoke everybody I know to get their attention, Albus realized, smiling slightly. He shrugged to himself. The book was already damaged enough—why not try something else? He ripped out a corner of a page.

The book lay still.

Bloody useless thing, Albus decided, instinctively glancing around to make sure his mother had not appeared and spontaneously gained the ability to hear his thoughts. What use was a book with no writing, and no way of giving him the clue? He rubbed the parchment bit between his fingers as he scowled. Weak, winter sunlight from the window over his shoulder caught the movement and danced it back to him in a shadow. With a jolt, Albus sat up.

"It's a Muggle spy kit," he remembered his dad telling his grandfather, just the Christmas before. "Muggle children love them—it's the full kit, too, with binoculars that let you see at night, a laser pointer, an invisible ink kit—"

"Invisible ink?" Arthur Weasley had pushed at his reading glasses excitedly. "They know invisibility spells?"

"Er, not quite." Harry Potter adjusted his own glasses, chuckling. "It's special chemicals—"

"Chemicals?"

"A bit like potions. Just more, er, scientific."

_Invisible ink_, Albus thought now, scrambling to get a parchment and a quill to write this idea down before it could fade. Certainly that was a Muggle thing that had fascinated his grandfather so much, but Arthur had talked about invisibility spells that could be put on regular ink. And maybe there was a potion to reveal hidden writing, something they could try on—

With a moue of dismay, Albus sighed. They'd have to use it on James's book, he decided, looking at the wreckage of his own. Very likely little could be read, even if they used the right potion to reveal the words. And he'd wanted so badly to solve the clue before James or even Victoire could. He would have to enlist his brother's help.

Still, he didn't let the thought distract him from leaping up and hurrying to the potions catalogue in the corner. A giant, dusty tome sat in the corner, currently open to the 'S' section. In it, Albus knew every potion in the library would be referenced by book title and page. Very few students actually used it, however, because doing so required knowing the actual name of the desired potion—or a very large amount of luck. Albus just had to hope that the Potter luck was running strong. Hardly daring to hope, he turned to the 'I' section and began to run his finger down the page.

Five minutes later, ink still wet on his note-parchment, he tore out of the library, startling both himself and the Fat Friar when he ran full-tilt through the jovial ghost. Calling a hurried "Sorry!" over his shoulder, he sped up. He leapt down the staircases three and four steps at a time, ignoring his mother's voice in his head, warning him to slow down before he plummeted to his death. And he took off down the Transfiguration corridor, barreling into his target at full speed. Stone walls all around them practically shook from the impact.

"Ow!" Rose glared at him from the ground. "Albus! What'd you do that for? Watch where you're bloody well going, will you?"

"Sorry—" Excited enough to hop from foot to foot, Albus reached down and hauled her to her feet, patting the sleeves of her robes sheepishly. "Didn't see you, Rose, Ev—glad I found you, though—you'll never believe what I got—"

"Quinlan wants to see you," Evan interrupted before Albus could announce his news. The other first year had jumped back at seeing Albus hurtling down the corridor; now he inched closer, wary of Rose's temper.

"What?"

"Said we needed to find you straight off. James just went up to talk to him, but now he needs to talk to you, too. So I don't reckon it's about blowing your cauldron up in Potions—"

"Even if it was Malfoy's fault," Rose muttered, her annoyance finding a new source.

Albus, remembering the incident in question—and the very bright orange, very gooey aftermath—winced. His mother would be receiving the owl any minute that he needed a new cauldron. And that he'd managed to paint the potions dungeon a new color entirely. He didn't figure it to be _quite_ Howler-worthy, as his parents could afford more cauldrons, but you never knew with Ginny Potter's temper. She might, he knew, try to send a bright pink cauldron to punish him. And if Albus had to spend the rest of the year making potions in a bright pink cauldron, he was definitely getting Malfoy back for the firecracker that had caused the whole mess.

Despite the fact that it had been hilarious, and Albus wished he'd thought of it first.

"Quinlan didn't say what he wanted? Not even a hint?" he asked now.

"It's about the Tournament, I suppose," Rose ventured when Evan only shrugged. "He made it sound important."

Something heavy and ungainly settled in Albus's stomach. "Well, I'd best see what he wants. Don't want to be late—"

"Wait." Rose grabbed his sleeve to hold him in place. "What'd you want to tell us?"

"Huh?"

"Al, you came running out here like every Bludger in Scotland was chasing you," Rose pointed out, a bit impatiently. She was seconds away from stomping her foot. "You said you had something to show us? Something you found?"

"Oh! Right." Albus looked down at his hands, but he'd dropped the parchment during the collision with Rose. Hurriedly, he bent and snatched it up, his rucksack swinging to his elbow in his haste and nearly knocking him over. He thrust the parchment at his cousin and his best friend, hoping it wasn't too smudged. "Look at that! I found that in the Potions Index. First try!"

Rose frowned at the ink, not quite dry and smeared a bit. "Is this for class? Did I miss an assignment?"

"No—" Trust Rose to assume he'd found homework she hadn't, even though Albus was only a mildly attentive student at best.

"An ink revealing potion?" Evan asked, reading over Rose's shoulder. "What for?"

"For this!" Albus yanked the clue from his rucksack and waggled it.

Rose's face cleared in understanding first. "Oh," she realized. "You think somebody's written instructions in it? In invisible ink?"

"Like the spy kit my dad got Grandda for Christmas," Albus confirmed. "I figured the surest way to find out would be a potion. And that potion seems to be all-purpose, you know, for all sorts of useful revealing to be done."

But Evan, not Rose, frowned. "How'd they check it for mistakes? The ink, I mean? I always mess up with quills—they'd have to be pretty confident that they were spelling everything right, or they'd look ridiculous—"

"Evan. Stay focused." But Rose was grinning as she shook her head, reading the potions ingredients that Albus had compiled hurriedly. "Looks pretty complicated. At least fourth and fifth year level." She grinned wider. "I say we try it."

Evan took the mangled book from Albus and inspected one of the pages—the one Albus had torn earlier. "Doesn't look like it has any indents in it. You know, you press hard enough with the quill, and the paper has ridges, and whatnot. I don't see any."

"You could—" Rose, about to explain how that might be possible, stopped abruptly and turned pointedly toward Albus. "What're you still doing here?"

"It's my clue, isn't it?" Albus asked indignantly.

"Yes, but you're due in Headmaster Quinlan's office. Hurry—we'll look over this, and figure out if we can do it in time, and you go see what Qu—what the headmaster wants." Her nose already bent close over the parchment to read Albus's spiky handwriting, Rose waved him away as though he were an afterthought. Albus, remembering all the times he had taken second place to a book in his cousin's life, was only slightly disgruntled as he walked away, calling a farewell to Evan over his shoulder. Once he was out of sight of his friends, he took off running. Though he dreaded whatever it was that Quinlan had to say—the man had never delivered good news to Albus, the first year decided—he wanted to get it over with, so that he could talk to Rose and Evan about the potion.

Sometimes it helped to have an overly curious big brother. James Potter had scored a few detentions as a first year—not that many, Albus had always felt, though his parents certainly thought otherwise. James just had a penchant for being caught at his explorations of Hogwarts, which Albus didn't view as a bad thing. It was actually a great help—James had given Albus and Evan a tour of the entire school in the first week, eager to show off his favorite haunts. And to warn Albus away from them, though Albus figured he didn't mean it. James was mostly talk.

One of the places he'd pointed out had been the headmaster's office. Even James's wanderings hadn't merited him a visit there, so he could only just point to the gargoyle Harry Potter had told his sons about. Both boys had theorized that something very important must lie beyond that wall to warrant such a guard. They'd had quite the time coming up with ideas—a lost school of Hinkypunks, the Minister of Magic's prized knickers collection, even the lost treasure of the temple of Ramses, a story Uncle Bill had told the boys only wizards knew. Though he'd had a fantastic dreaming up suggestions, each more outlandish than the last, Albus found now that he didn't really want to know what was beyond the gargoyle.

He stared into the creature's ugly, gnarled face. It stared lifelessly back. Like Gryffindor Tower, the door required some sort of password, though Evan and Rose hadn't mentioned any.

"Er," Albus finally ventured, clearing his throat. "I'm here to see Quin—Headmaster Quinlan?"

The gargoyle didn't move.

"I'm Albus Potter? He's expecting—oh."

The gargoyle's stone features pounced to life, startling Albus so that he stumbled back. He stared as the creature leapt aside, a gaping hole appearing in the wall behind it. Stairs, lit by the golden flame of torches, spiraled into view. Curious and cautious—and eyeing the gargoyle warily, as though it might change its mind—Albus stepped inside and onto one of the steps. It carried him up and away from the hallway; he heard the wall close up behind him, and wondered if the gargoyle had taken up its post again. Probably.

The staircase wound up to a stately wooden door, polished from centuries of use. Hesitantly, Albus rapped his knuckles against the wood.

"Come in!"

With only the slightest hesitation—a betrayal to the fact that the Sorting Hat had placed him in Gryffindor—Albus twisted the knob and stuck his head into the room. He lowered his eyebrows, confused to see James sitting at a desk opposite the headmaster. Quinlan sat—lounged, really—on a huge wooden chair behind a sprawling desk. Everything atop it was divided into neat sections. Parchments were pristinely rolled to sit beside their fellows, quills lined up with military precision, perfectly fluffed and never daring to shed on the polished wood. Albus, who had never seen a properly clean desk in his life, nearly stared.

"Ah. The other Mr. Potter. I see Mr. Newcastle and Miss Weasley were able to locate you promptly." The headmaster's eyes, gray and just a bit distant, drifted after he'd given Albus a quick once-over. Albus hurriedly straightened the robes he'd rumpled during his collision with Rose. "Please, please, have a seat. Your brother and I were just having tea. Would you care for a cup?"

"Er, certainly, sir. Thank you."

Quinlan just waved his wand, and a cup floated over to Albus, already full of steaming tea. "How do you take it?"

"This is good, thanks." Mindful that he didn't spill, Albus edged into the seat beside James. He glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye and nearly did a double-take. James's fists were clenched, and he was leaning forward slightly, like their father always did when he was furious and trying to hide it. One of James's shoes tapped restlessly against the tiles; the arm nearest Albus twitched in harmony. Albus's stomach sank even further.

"I see you've applied to go home for the holidays," Quinlan began without preamble. "I'm afraid that I can't grant that application."

Albus's brows knitted together. Had he done something wrong. "Sir?"

"I know you boys wish to see your parents and…you have a sister, am I correct?"

Since James seemed too angry to speak, Albus nodded for the both of them. "Lily. She's nine."

"A lovely name."

"It was our grandmother's." Albus took a sip of tea, as though he were sitting on some fancy parlor instead of being told bad news by his headmaster. His thoughts were whirling, mostly from confusion. "Why can't we go home, sir?" A horrible thought had him nearly fumbling the tea cup. "It's not the Yule Ball, is it?"

"We have to go," James muttered, breaking his silence. Albus watched his knuckles flex. "Because we're Champions. We have to open the ball."

"Open the ball?" Albus looked from his brother to his headmaster.

"Traditionally, Champions are required to lead the first dance," Quinlan explained. "It's been that way since the Tri-Wizard Tournament was first initiated to promote international wizarding relations. Even with your special circumstances—"

Even as he thought longingly of Christmastime at the Burrow, where the family could hardly all fit together—they never gave up trying, though—Albus scowled. "Dad did it, right?" he asked James, trying to remember if Neville had mentioned anything in particular. He'd talked about the Yule Ball, but Albus didn't remember anything about his dad opening the ball with the other Champions.

"Yeah," James told him before Quinlan could. The elder Potter shot a short resentful look across the desk, at the man who lounged on the other side. "Doesn't mean _I _want to, though. It gets worse."

"What?" He was going to miss Gran Molly's special Christmas feast. What could be worse than _that_? "How?"

"Dancing lessons."

"_What_?"

Quinlan lifted an eyebrow at James, tacitly informing him that the headmaster had reached his limit with insolence. James just shrugged and flopped back, staring at his shoes. Quinlan's frown deepened. "Yes, Mr. Potter," he answered Albus, instead of scold James. "You and Mr. Pot—your brother will be required to attend dancing lessons with your head of house this Saturday and next, so that you may represent both Gryffindor House and Hogwarts School in a properly respectful way. You will both need to attain escorts for the Yule Ball, or at least the opening dance."

Albus's stomach, already plummeting, hit some point between his ankles.

Quinlan, however, hadn't finished. "Did either of you bring appropriate dress robes this year?'

"No," James bit off. When he caught Quinlan's reproachful look, he added, "Sir."

"You'll need to write home to your parents and explain the situation, and your needs. I'll arrange it with your father to have you visit Hogsmeade so that you may obtain suitable robes."

Albus sucked in a deep breath. "There's really no way we can get out of this, is there? No magical loophole?"

"I am afraid not, Mr. Potter." Quinlan glanced at the wall above Albus's head, his gaze briefly unfocused. In that moment of distraction, Albus felt his own gaze wander. He sucked in a surprised breath when his eyes landed on the Goblet of Fire, its rim smoking lightly. This was the object, he thought in a daze, that had nearly brought him and James death by manticore. It was smaller than he remembered, just the size of a normal goblet. Every few seconds, it gave a gentle, silent burp of smoke.

Albus shifted his gaze to his brother while he took a sip of tea. But James was staring at his shoes still. Carefully, Albus peeked at the headmaster from under his fringe and nudged his brother. When James frowned at him, questioning, Albus nodded ever so slightly at the goblet. James's frown deepened.

Quinlan might have kept them for two or twenty minutes longer, but neither boy paid much attention, as focused as they were on the Goblet. They stood, nodding politely, when dismissed, and moved to the door. Albus sneaked only one more glance over his shoulder at the Goblet before the door closed behind him. The Potters spiraled down the stairs. Neither spoke, shrouded as they were in their own thoughts, until the wall at the base of the stairs opened for them. Once Albus heard the rustle of stone paws on tile as the gargoyle sprang back into position, he turned to his brother.

"I though they'd have sent the Goblet back to the Ministry by now."

"Nah," James decided. "They still want to put test spells on it. Find out why it picked us."

"Maybe it's just bad luck we got picked."

James shook his head, thoughtfully. "Maybe." He didn't say anything else, so the brothers walked along silently, until James commented, "I forgot how small it was. I mean, if you think about it, it's just a goblet. Like Dad's hat, when he used to pull names out of it so that the Quidditch teams would be fair."

Albus nodded. "But unlike Dad's hat," he reasoned, "it's not random."

"It's not?"

"Well, it picked us. Two Potters. When it picked Dad in _his _fourth year, when he was too young to be a Champion."

"It's got something in for the Potters," James mused. The concept wasn't unfamiliar; both boys remembered outings where their parents had acted strangely, or had pulled them away suddenly, as though from danger. With their dad famous for having felled Voldemort, and their mum an ex-Quidditch player with disappointed fans, they'd had more than their share of scares. Now James frowned. "Has anybody tried to talk to it?"

"What?"

"I mean, I know they're trying spells on it and whatnot, and that's all fine, but has anybody tried to actually talk to it and figure out who put our names in?"

"It doesn't have a mouth."

"You could, you know, write to it."

Albus stared at his older brother. "You want to owl the Goblet of Fire?"

"No, not send it an owl." James rolled his eyes, as though Albus were being an idiot. "Just drop a letter—doesn't even have to be a full one, really—into it. Say something like, 'Hey, who put our names in? Did you get a good look at his face?' Something like that."

"The Goblet doesn't have a mouth," Albus repeated. "Or eyes."

"It doesn't need to, does it? It spits out the names of the Champions just fine, which means it's not actually _burning _the parchment people put into it." James shrugged. "So maybe it'll have a way to answer direct questions."

Albus goggled at his brother as they rounded the corner leading to Gryffindor Tower. "So you want to ask Quinlan permission to put a letter into the Goblet of Fire," he surmised, wondering.

James frowned back. "When you put it that way, it sounds a bit mad, doesn't it?" He turned to the Fat Lady. "Bless you."

"Why, thank you." With a giggle and a girlish wave at the boys, the portrait swung forward. James scrambled through first, Albus close on his heels. Most of the students were out, still enjoying their snowball fights or watching Quidditch practice, so the Common Room was mostly empty. And for once, the good seats in front of the fire weren't taken. In perfect accord, the brothers collapsed into adjacent armchairs.

"I don't think we should ask permission," James finally decided, staring into the flames. "The adults might say no, and then they would know what we were up to, eh? And I feel like we need to try this, putting the letter into the goblet. It's better, after all, to ask forgiveness than permission, eh?"

"Words to live by," Albus decided after a minute. "So if we're not going to ask permission, how are we going to _get _to the Goblet? In case you haven't noticed, it's in the headmaster's office, and we're not exactly constant visitors there, now, are we?"

James frowned. "True." He paused, his frown turning oddly thoughtful. Albus, who had seen his older brother rush into more hey-go-mad situations than anybody he knew, was oddly frightened.

His fear only increased when James turned that thoughtful look on him. "Well, that's settled."

"What's settled?"

"I won't be going anywhere near the Goblet," James decided. "You will. You're going to get the Goblet to talk to you."

Albus stared at his elder brother as though he had grown a spare head—or three. "_What_?"

"The teachers know me better," James informed him. "They've had me longer, they know my motivations, and whatnot. I have a reason to do the things I do, and they know that. If I do something that ends me up in the headmaster's office, they're going to know I have ulterior motives. You, however, might as well be a blank slate."

"But—but—" Albus thought about the sort of things that might warrant a trip into the headmaster's office. And he didn't like a single one of them. Or the resulting Howlers, come to think of it. "But—Mum and Dad—"

"Will get over it," James decided firmly. He nodded once, as though that decided everything, as though Albus wasn't gaping at him, open-mouthed. "Good to have a plan. See you later, Al."

And before Albus could squawk out another protest, James strode off toward the stairs, muttering about finding a date for the Yule Ball, and how real men didn't need dancing lessons.

* * *

By the time Rose and Evan found their way back to Gryffindor Tower, Rose bubbling over with ideas on completing what she called "their potion," rather than just Albus's, Albus had managed to shove his brother's latest hare-brained scheme from his mind. Mostly.

Still, he looked a bit glassy-eyed when his friends spilled into the Common Room. "What's up with you?" Evan asked immediately, throwing himself in the armchair James had abandoned fire with a long, contented sigh.

Albus shook his head. He'd crawled down in front of the fire and lay on his back, looking up at his friends in the armchairs. "It's been the strangest afternoon."

"Stranger than outsmarting a manticore?"

"Almost," Albus stressed, "outsmarting a manticore. And yes." Still reeling a bit over it, he filled his friends in on the conversation with James, and seeing the Goblet in Headmaster Quinlan's office. "And on top of that," he finished, resting his palm against his forehead, "I have to find a date for the Yule Ball."

Rose frowned. "They've made it a special policy for you and James to attend, haven't they? Since you're Champions?"

Albus nodded.

Evan muttered his opinion of that. Rose snickered at his language, rather than chastising him like her mother might. "He's right," she decided. "Who're you going to ask? You'd better hurry—all the others have a head-start on you and James, after all."

"Yeah, they've also got the advantage of being older." Albus rolled his eyes. "And, you know, interested in stuff like this." It quite depressed him to be forced into the dating world at eleven, when his cousins, much older and wiser, were having so much trouble with it as young as fifteen. He'd noticed just earlier that day that both Lexy and Dim looked a bit uncomfortable with the idea of a Yule Ball. Lexy, probably because she'd turned down Llewellyn and everybody was afraid to come near her or face the huge Slytherin's wrath. And Dim because Marisa Marpoles wasn't returning the calf's eyes he constantly made at her.

Albus didn't pretend to understand.

He tilted his head back to look at the fire, groaning. "Don't suppose you'd go with me, Rose?"

But Rose shook her head. "I'm going home, Al. Without me there, Hugo and Dad would drive Mum spare with the decorating." She looked a bit like she might regret passing up an opportunity to attend one of the most famous wizard balls in the world. But the thought of Aunt Hermione left alone with her mischievous husband and son was clearly stronger. Or at least more compelling, Albus had to admit.

He kicked idly at the leg of the arm chair Evan had collapsed into.

"Before you ask," Evan said, "I'm not interested in blokes." He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out at Albus.

Albus returned the face. "I wasn't going to ask. I'm not interested in blokes either."

"Good. Glad we got that cleared up, then." Evan used the tip of his wand to scratch his scalp just above his widow's peak, ignoring the blue sparks it kicked up at the motion. "You know, you should just check the lists, see if there are any first years staying. Or see if there's somebody willing to stay over the break just to attend this fancy shindig."

Albus nodded. "Good idea."

"So the Walking Dictionary over here located your potion and did some more research," Evan announced, jerking a thumb at Rose. She stuck her tongue out at him, but he hadn't finished. "She reckons it'll take us a couple of weeks to make."

"So we should start after Christmas? And try revealing spells in the meantime?" Albus wondered aloud.

Rose nodded. "I'll need to talk to Professor Honeywell. Since it's for the tournament, she might object to Evan and me helping you—"

"I doubt that." Albus, struck by a sudden idea, grinned. "'Sides, she's easy to get around. We can just ask Neville, right?"

"Devious," Evan decided. "I like it."

"So we'll make the potion then, and include James so that we can use a page from his book, too." Rose glanced around. "Where _is _James, anyway? He wasn't at Quidditch practice, obviously, because Professor Quinlan wanted to see him, but where's he now? He's usually taking a nap in one of these chairs, or hanging out with the hoodlums—"

Albus shrugged. "He went upstairs. I think the plan to corrupt me and get me in to talk to the Goblet wore him out."

Rose frowned a bit. "You know, I got a letter from Dad the other day—he says he's a bit disappointed that we haven't had at least four detentions yet. He'd think it's a good thing that James is trying to corrupt you."

"My mum won't, and she's scarier than your dad."

"True."

* * *

Most boys waited until thirteen or fourteen to discover just how hard it was to dredge up dates. Albus, being a naturally precocious child, didn't: he jumped head-first into this painful rite of passage at eleven years old, and emerged, he was certainly, entirely changed for the experience.

"Kill me," he rasped to his cousin and his best friend, plopping into one of the overstuffed armchairs in Gryffindor House on Saturday night.

Evan looked up from the miniature Quidditch board game he'd been playing with Rose (who'd taken, as usual, an unbeatable combination of Puddlemere United's Keeper, the entire offensive line from the Ballycastle Bats, and the rest from other assorted teams; Evan's generic Holyhead Harpies couldn't hope to stand up to such an awesome array of power). "What's that?" he asked. "Kill you? What for? Dancing lessons that terrible?"

In his recent humiliation, Albus had quite forgotten about the dancing lessons. Thinking of them now just made him turn white and moan.

"Must've been," Rose observed, looking from her cousin to their friend. On the tiny board, Oliver Wood made an impressive catch that went mostly unnoticed. "What happened, Al? McGonagall try to dance with you? Dad says she's not so bad, you know, if you catch her at the right moments."

Albus groaned. "No, no, I didn't have to dance with McGonagall." James had, though. Victoire, as Head Girl and Prefect, had shown up to assist the Potter boys in their dancing quests. She had partnered Albus, and had only laughed when he'd tromped all over her toes. "And I don't want to think any more about dancing lessons. They're bad enough."

"What's got you in this state, then?"

On the board, the miniature Oliver Wood berated his Beaters. The Holyhead Harpies, a conspicuous redhead among them, snickered.

"I have asked every bloody first year girl to go with me to the Yule Ball," Albus announced.

To his horror, his two best friends did not look affronted or sympathetic over the news. In fact, Evan snickered. "Even Lacey Muldoon?"

"The Slytherin?" Rose looked a bit like she wanted to laugh, too, but she caught a look at Albus's thunderous expression and wisely refrained.

"Even her," Albus muttered.

"And?" Rose prodded his knee, her eyebrows high.

"And every bloody first year but me seems to be going home." Albus practically snarled it. Feeling overdramatic and, well, eleven, he hurled himself against the back of the chair and prepared to indulge himself in a fine sulk. "You don't know how many times I've heard, 'Well, gee, that's nice of you, Al, but I've plans.' One of the Slytherins—not Lacey—laughed at me. Three of the Ravenclaws giggled as I walked away. I think they were laughing at my hair."

"What?" Now indignant on her cousin's behalf, Rose nearly leapt to her feet to go teach the Ravenclaws a lesson. "It's not your fault that it sticks up in the back! It's genetics!"

"I think they were laughing at the fact that it's red," Evan observed, squinting up at his best friend.

"That's even worse," Rose decided, a mutinous set to her face. Albus decided then and there that he didn't want to be a Ravenclaw in their next Charms class—it looked as though Rose might intentionally miss with the next potentially nasty spell. "So what are you going to do? If none of the first years will go with you?"

"Start with the second years, I expect." A flush started at the base of his neck at the thought of asking, as his dad might put it, 'an older woman' to the ball, but Albus stared determinedly into the fire. "Look a bit like an idiot dancing by myself, wouldn't I?"

"I'm sure you'll find somebody." Rose hunkered down over the Quidditch game again, frowning when she saw that the score had altered in her distraction. She waved her wand impatiently, freezing the entire game.

"Hey! Jones was about to score!"

The famous Gwenog Jones was indeed frozen, mid-throw.

Rose shrugged. "She'll just have to wait a minute, I suppose. You should ask Erika Jorgenssen, Al, to the ball."

Albus scrunched up his nose. "Which one's she?"

"Real pretty. Second year. Blonde." Rose craned her neck to get a better look around the common room. "Her relatives always go abroad—I heard the second years talking about it—so she usually stays behind. She might like to go with you, just to get a chance to go to the ball."

"Sure." Since he'd already humiliated himself with the people in all of his classes, why not go up a year? Albus shrugged. "Just point her out tomorrow at breakfast."

"Oh, she's right over there." Rose waved a freckled hand at a young woman leaning over some sort of magazine on the far opposite side of the common room. Albus studied her as furtively as he could, blushing a bit. He couldn't tell very well, but she did look pretty, as Rose had claimed. He took a deep breath and rose.

"Good luck," Evan told him.

"Thanks. I might need it."

It took forever to walk across the common room; every step seemed to last a minor eternity from the time his foot left the floor until it fell again. Determined, Albus slogged on, past a group of frantically revising seventh years, dodging the screaming ball the fourth years seemed to adore. He felt his friends' eyes watching him, and squared his shoulders.

At the precise moment he reached Erika, a commotion on the stairs made him look over. Every second year boy piled into the common room, shouting and gathering around James. They were pounding him on the back, slapping his shoulders and tousling his hair as though he were about to go represent Gryffindor House in Quidditch. He stumbled away from them, a bit flushed, and looked around the common room, searching for something.

"Excuse me?"

Albus was jolted back to the present to find an extraordinarily pretty girl watching him, confused. Oh, right, he remembered. He'd come over to this side of the room to ask Erika Jorgenssen to the ball.

Only now that he was standing right in front of her, his tongue seemed to have curled up faster than a shrivelfig.

"Um…"

"Did you need something?" Erika blinked guilelessly blue eyes at him; all intelligence seemed to drain from Albus like through a sieve.

"Er—"

James spared Albus from having to answer by popping up unannounced at his elbow. He flicked an almost disdainful glance over his younger brother and merely said, "Shoo."

Faced with the frightening thought of asking an older woman on a date, Albus was almost relieved as he fled.

"What happened?" Rose demanded immediately once Albus had flung himself into the safety of the armchair. "Did she say yes? Did you even ask her?"

Albus, about to inform his friends that he had chickened out, was spared even that. Evan craned his neck to get a good look across the common room. "Looks like he got beat out," he decided, nodding. "By his own brother, at that."

"What?" Surprised, Albus twisted to look. It hadn't even occurred to him to ask what James had been doing; he'd just taken the opportunity to run without thinking it through. But now James was hurrying away from Erika, back to his friends. He was flushed a bright red, a gift of his Weasley heritage. And Erika Jorgenssen, though she was staring at her magazine again, blushed exactly the same shade. Realization dawned. "_Oh_."

"He looks pretty pleased with himself," Rose observed, watching James get his back slapped and his hair tousled yet again. "Pride of the second years, that's our James Potter."

Evan turned his grin back to Albus, obviously deciding to focus on Albus rather than on the Quidditch game. It was understandable; Rose's lineup was beating his by a tidy five hundred points. "Don't worry, Al," Evan told him. "I'm sure we'll find you a date in time."

"Even if we have to ask every Slytherin in the school," Rose decided, and all three pulled a face at that prospect.

**A/N the Second: Next chapter - Albus finds a date. Care to guess who? (No, it's not Rose)**


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